


In the Garden of Snakes

by CVNNBL



Series: Ophidian. [1]
Category: General Work, General Works, No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Action, Adventure, Blood, Blood Magic, Fantasy, Gay Character of Color, Gen, Gore, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, Light Romance, M/M, Magic, Necromancy, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Mythos, Original Universe, Web Serial, elder gods gone wild, eldritch shenanigans, mythos, web novel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2020-09-07 20:37:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 56,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20315668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CVNNBL/pseuds/CVNNBL
Summary: To live the life of the Divine as the Oracle the people crave or to live the life as the master thief he's always decided, Mohan must choose one to live a loudly as possible. Yet, when a creature begins to raise its ugly head in the midst of his final days before his grand heist-- does he combine the two of divinity and stealth, or does he prepare for a loud, messy battle instead?But what happens when Divinity intervenes first and the heist is just around the corner?





	1. Prologue: The Star and the Thief

**Author's Note:**

> I originally tried to post this to my fandom account and thought it was a terrible idea, but I wanted to share my work here. So clean slate. Clean everything. Please enjoy the shenanigans and double please: leave likes and comments.
> 
> ps: I live the life of dying by typos. so enjoy the mess of my first draft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back on my bullshit of adding new things randomly into chapters. :)  
added: 5/15/2020

_Tya όu Ljόr 0:2:1 – Tour of Light – Book 0 / Chapter 2 / Paragraph 1_

When greeted with magic for the first time, there was no fear. The way it tingled in her hands and left such a staunch pain that shot down her spine announced that something was taking its time worming through her body. Was it evil? The only response to follow was if she cared or not. It was gift from the Stars that held such a glow that it mesmerized her. It was a shade—a _light_—eyes had never seen before. It gave uniqueness to the graying grass at her feet and the soil a shine it never held.

It had to be _hers_.

There’s a thump of her heart—_ba-bump. Ba-bump—_scaling in rhythm and harder in pressure. She wasn’t supposed to be here… was she? Yet, it was far too late to leave now. She had seen something no other had ever stumbled across and it was beautiful.

And thus, she kneels, reaching for the blinding light and feeling her skin glow at the touch of something smooth yet sharp.

“I see you, little thief,” A voice spoke. It felt as if it had echoed in her head and surrounded her body in whispers that shook her down to her core. “I see my light has led you here. Do you like it?” The voice sat gentle like a curious lover, not once angry, but intensely excited. However, the voice sat disembodied, watching from the blackness of the trees around the thief. “Go on, my thief. Pick it up. Feel its warmth. Let it become one with you.”

The voice moves and distorts in her ear before it eases into one—feminine… _soft._ And yet, the thief waits no time to scramble for the light, scooping it and the little box it sat in.

Gone.

The light. Its shine. The shade it carried… **_Gone._**

The thief panics. Had they ruined the moment they had stumbled on? Where was the dazzling array of shades it carried? Where was the light that brightened the forest she stood in?

“Did you like the [color]? Would you like to see it again?” She nods. “Close the book and take out the knife. Then will it back. Think of it again. I know you can do it.”

She’s gentle this time. Opening what she believed to be a small box, but there it was, the little knife she had ran her fingers across. But, once it’s in her grip again, the pain returns. First a wave of heat that left her body in a heavy sweat as if she had been cooked alive, sucking the air from her lungs and leaving her nerves resting on needles and pins. She wants to scream, that thief does, but nothing ever comes.

Nothing but a light so bright it burns.

And, by the stars, does a bring a screech—one that howls as the light flourishes. Then it dims… and the thief writhes in the grass she once stood in. _Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump._ She can hear it thudding in her ears, the pulse never dying down. Was this the Great End? Had she encountered the Eternal Sleep? She couldn’t move and every little twitch brought a new wave of anguish.

“Don’t force it,” she hears, “This is what you wanted… yes? Do you see it now? The [color] you’ve brought? We—you and I—can [paint] the world like this? All you have to do is accept me. No… Say thank you, my little thief and you’ll be gifted with everything. You’ll taste the eternity and all its glory… and if you love it—we can bring light to your world. Just as I did for you. Look. Look, look, look!”

The pain falls as she feels nothing but wind ‘neath her body, lifting her free from the soil she lay. Yet, on her feet, she sees it—the shades the knife had brought, bright and illuminating in various [colors], as the voice called it. Everything felt right, from the lit sky to the earth reaching toward the light above. Even to the sight of her own skin kissed by the brightest star above. This [color] burned into the thief’s mind, bringing such sting to her eyes as it faded away into the greys and blacks she knew.

She shakes her hand. Once. Twice. Thrice. But no [color] returns.

“Don’t force it, my love. This is in you now. You must set your path so you can bring strength to your ilk. Now gently this time.”

The thief holds her hand out. The knife, short, black and sharp in her hands, sparkling with dazzle of [colors] brings a sill to the air around her. There’s a shuffle at her feet, the sound of crunching leaves and squelching of the wet soil as if something lifted free from it.

With eyes wide, she watched as shambled creatures pulled free from the old soil, limping their way to her side—surrounding her with a wobbling stagger.

“They bend to your word, thief. You can steal their souls and collect your debts so much easier now. So again— say thank you and you’ll be blessed forever. Say thank you and soon you’ll be able to **devour **your enemies and consume their being for your **knowledge.** Go on…”

“_Thank you._”


	2. The Hunt for Champions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit - 3/8/20: currently re-re-editing chapters. please mind the dust.

**Act One. / Book One.**

_I build **champions** not **cowards.**_

When ghosts haunt their children, is it for safety or abuse? The voices of the dead swarm your head and what do they say? Are their words kind or harsh? For King Jolyon Cristwel, they are always the latter. The moon lurks high above, right outside his window and he can see the silhouette of his father standing tall beside the curtains with his hands behind his back and that regal stance proud and strong… but it never bode well. Valtteri Cristwel was not a kind man, but he was damn respected. It was power that ran through his veins and intimidation that burned through his body… Yet, he’d be damned if his masterpiece didn’t exceed his lineage.

He died creating the best so his sons could do the same.

Moons past and dawns come where Jolyon lay staring at his ceiling recounting the painted stars above with hopes that the number would eventually change and the voice of his father would die out. However, it never comes. The same speech comes at the same time when he’s at his most alert—alone without his wife at his side and overthinking what life would be like if he were just a poor farmer. Perhaps life would be difficult, yes, but happier. No worries of a country falling under his feet. No worries of the failure of his _pristine_ armies… Just the worry of his crops not making the summer harvest.

_1,476… 1,477… 1,478…_

Those stars begin to fade into the black. He can still hear the angry muttering of his father cursing under his breath about “_something, something **you don’t know shit.**_” The speech he got before his father died to the treachery of his brothers who ended up poisoned before they could take the throne. A clusterfuck of bad that rolled itself into a tight ball and kept rolling down the cliffs as he took the crown. If only he could catch it all before chaos hit, he would have had that moment of reprise. Free. Happy. Probably a farmer teaching kids how to sword fight with sticks. Would have been beautiful and yet… here he is, eighty years later, miserable and setting a point to the aggravated, disembodied voice of his father, but proud of the people he built into **_champions._**

Jolyon is sitting up now, staring at the dark shadowed beyond his bed. His life. His livelihood. The kingdom his blood built—was to build _legends._ He almost scurries out of bed with that thought with his mind awake and rampant now. Messily, he slides an undershirt on and stumbles across his slippers in a halt. **_Fuck Valtteri Sanna Cristwel._** That man produced _nothing_, whereas Jolyon watched challenges became greats. Valtteri Cristwel, fifth of his name, could **_never_** reach the status Jolyon had done in less than a decade of his rule. He had names that struck fear and hope in the hearts of nations around the globe no matter how punch-drunk off power they were or how holy they ended in the long run.

So, why does this haunt Jolyon that it keeps him up at night? _Challenges._ The idea of it had been drilled into his mind for years that anything out of his grasp should never stray there for long. You see the problem and you _seize_ it. Nothing is out of your reach. No soldier is a failure as long as the dedication stays powerful. Then again, within that speech that still lurks in the back of his head, “the only thing this lineage has is its pride. Someone can take it all away with one war… don’t let that be us. For we are emperors, kings, noblemen… _leaders._ And one wrong slip and we become nothing. **_Don’t become nothing and you’ll succeed._**”

He’s out of his quarters now, his guards go to greet him and offer an extra pair of slippers that he had long kicked away and shrugs them off with a wave. There’s an objective at the end, swimming around in his head and that was to chase an impossible. A challenge greater than any he’s tackled yet. The thought of it almost put a smile on his face.

There’s a Priest that needs a new occupation.

The King comes to a stop and a hand raises again, one to give a gentle tap to a door, but is stopped by a passing guard who dips low in a quiet bow, “You just missed the Lord Oracle. He’s down in the sanctuary… or in the shrine. He didn’t quite say which.”

“How do you know this?”

“I asked him. He usually wanders at this time and I questioned if he wanted someone to join him on his walks, but he told me he just wanted to enjoy the company of those who straggled in for a late night prayer or confession.”

A quiet “thank you” comes from the man and guard silently returns to his post without complaint. He has time to think of how he’s going to phrase his words before he finds the young Oracle, for it was a massive request and perhaps—one that would (or _could_) ruin his career as an Imperial Commander.

When he was young, he watched with starry eyes as a new Oracle was graced the world with fresh eyes and a new body. From a distance he saw how his father kept her up for days as he trained her body to withstand pain and anguish as if she were nothing but another common soldier. Every day was a waking nightmare for her, no doubt. His father’s methods were intentional, but destructive. Champions were starved and beaten so they were easier to mold as he pieced them back together. Nevertheless, Jolyon saw the results of that as they grew older, side by side—just he, the Crown Prince, and the Oracle of a nation.

His plans are to never deprive his fighters like his father did Kataleya. Though an excellent warrior she became, his approach to building them came with humane requirements. This was the goal for the Oracle: build him up and mold him into a plague worthy of the All-Mother’s infinite glory. Jolyon’s love for his eldest friend knew no bounds, but a peaceful Oracle of Kularis was redundant. The woman was a Goddess of Death. She _is_ The End and the Oncoming Black. She _was_ the Creator and the Devastator—why in all of Hevel would she **_ever_** want an Oracle of **PEACE?**

It’s a thought that’s come and go, but never sat alone. The Junior Oracle agreed… but this did come from a necromancer fascinated with death and hungry for knowledge. One that stood before the King, gaze empty but focused on a staggering shadow that seemed to circle him within the dark sanctuary like a frightened, inquisitive creature. The shadow eventually dissolves into nothing, dissipating into the surrounding dark with a low, quiet groan, leaving the two of them alone in such a small room. Slowly does the Oracle turn to face Jolyon, his expression exhausted and a little bruised. Yet he smiles, one small and filled with a kindness most rarely see anymore.

“Can’t sleep?” Mohan questions, “Neither could I. The homesickness is really doing me in tonight.”

“So that brought you down here?”

“Not at first, no. A few Astani wanted me to join them for dinner, and then it led me here with them. Felt better to be with kin for a while.”

Jolyon nods, “Chatting with them is only gonna make that homesickness worse.” A moment of silence passes, the King glances around the room with curiosity, “Are you waiting for someone? I can come back later.”

The Oracle shakes his head, “No. Last soldier has already left. It’s just me and you. But the better question is: what brings _you_ down here?”

The church was rather small. It could hold about twenty or so people within for a small sermon comfortably, but no more than that. It was made for a public spot for worship of gods not quite as seen as Kos was. However, just a step out was a small clearing made for shrines for a more private setting. Statues of various sizes, all adorned with little trinkets and cloths as gifts made it welcoming as opposed to the chapels grey walls and tired pews. Couldn’t be anything different than how it was for Mohan back home. Or maybe the sanctum back in Crystalheim was far more exquisite. It was holy land, after all.

He closes the door to the entrance and sighs, “I was going to wait until we met in the morning to speak, but here we are. I think you are ready for your first heist.”

The Oracle frowns then his lips purse and his eyes squint in a series of vivid actions, “A _heist?_ What do you want me to do? Rob the United Vault? It’s not going to happen.”

“Please do not burgle my vaults, Mohan…” There’s another smile on those tanned, freckled cheeks. “No. This would be the test that proves you to yourself, my boy.”

“Oh yeah?” The young man takes a seat in one of the pews, “What would you like me to do?”

Jolyon is quiet for a moment as he takes a seat in the pew behind Mohan. The wooden seat creaks with life as he adjusts himself comfortably, despite his knees pressed against the back of the pew in front of him. But he can’t help but eye the young Oracle silently. Every little detail is always seen— the black lines of webbed veins at his neck to the growing, patchy stubble at his cheeks, and the empty black sclera of his eyes. Such an interesting portrait this young man gives and it was almost left to disappear behind the depressing podiums of scattered churches.

“I want you to eradicate all the entirety of the Ryja.”

Mohan’s brows furrow at the request, “That’s a lot, isn’t it? I don’t think I’d be able to scan the entire plot…”

“Fair. I do at least want to hear that every leader is dead and _that_ I know you can do. They aren’t that hard to find. They are covered in snakes… Wear’em like they’re clothing, they do. It’s to show their faux status.” He readjusts with a frown, “Point is, their existence on my land irritates me and I want to send a message. They are peddlers, slave traders, kidnappers, and then some in _my_ kingdom.”

“There has to be something in there that has sparked your attention, Jolyon…”

“There’s a black grimore they’ve picked up off a group of black market dealers. If I am correct, it is very dangerous and it should be with a set of onyx made weapons. It’s all cursed, I’m sure of it.”

“Are you sure it’s really cursed?”

The King snorts, “Nah. The thought of this rumor comes much more interesting. A grimore with unstable magic? It has to be cursed or something… _beautiful. _The weapons, however, are an old heirloom my brothers sold off years ago.”

Mohan nods mindlessly, combing blackened talons through his hair. There’s something ethereally ominous about him that fascinates Jolyon. Always quiet. Always studying. Always focused… always with the same blank expression that left him so inquisitive and innocent. One Mohan needed for his position but sat as a powerful tool against enemies. It’s enticing how dangerous that neutral gaze can truly be. The thought of it almost gave him goosebumps.

“Why not send your mercenaries?”

“A hassle. They aren’t good enough to get in and out without raising alarms as you are.” Jolyon stands with a hand on Mohan’s shoulder. With a squeeze and a smile, there is honest hesitance in his heart. Mohan _is_ ready, right? He’ll prove his worth—he knows it. “If you want to accept this mission, be in the armory at dawn.”

This was the right option, was it not? Though a novice Mohan is, he has to be ready to take this drastic step forward away from an uncomfortable priesthood to the one he craves most. One quiet step at a time.


	3. The Assassin and the Priest

Emmeline can’t stop staring at him. There’s something off about the way he moves. He’s silent when he makes his way through halls, like a curious ghost lurking in the background. He walks with an eerie regality about him, but none of it flowing with the grace that only etiquette tutors could teach. It’s as if he studied it by watching from afar and contorted it into something… unholy. Is it odd? A little… but it could be a twisted sight in comparing it to the Elder-Oracle. At least Oracle Vollan _was_ of noble decent at least. From what she knew, Mohan was just the son of a farmer.

Mayhaps it’s just the royal in her blood causing her to look down at a man higher than her. It stemmed from years watching how courts outside her homeland carried themselves. All snobbish and none of them less arrogant than the next. It’s an odd habit ingrained from sitting at on a throne she’ll no longer own, yet one day, it’ll be come a habit she’ll learn to break. But even with her cautious staring, nothing about him stuck out that he was anything like she way. He was one of them—_the poor, _or that’s what they told her. Farmers don’t live as extravagant as others here as they do back in Rovenica that it made her wonder how he integrated… Then again, she barely even knew him. Emmeline only knew of his name through rumors that spread like wildfire from the gossiping maids and onlookers that compared him to his mentor. They spoke of his unusual behavior—late nights where he’d wander the halls whispering to himself or _his magic._ She’d hear from some how they’ve come across necromancers after a funeral and their magic didn’t feel _alive_ as his did. His was thriving, often speaking in low, intelligible whispers in languages they could only assume were dead.

“It’s not right,” one girl told her, “you can feel something in that… like it’s _wrong _or _evil…_ but he’s a priest? No priest emits an aura like that. I-it’s not approachable.”

Her lips part, yet she remains quiet. Perhaps speaking to him will lead her into an understanding of _why_ he is the way he is. She’s met other Oracles and all but one exude the same energy. The Monks of Suri’mandir have been faces of kindness for centuries. Then again, the Raven Queen of Căn Xe Đền was just about on the same level of the young Oracle. However, she had been the queen of the Valkyries for centuries, pressing into wars just as frequently as Barrowlea does. Her nasty mood was centuries of proving herself and then some… so for Mohan, for a farmer, he should radiate the happiness of the people… right?

Or were they miserable and he was their beacon of their fury?

There’s a scrunch to the assassin’s nose. Emmeline could sit there and interrogate him to bash down rumors, corner him and demand he answer every little question… however, she follows an alternate route. She allows him to speak candidly without fear. Listens to how he phrases words, his dialect a bit harsher than that of royals, but still oddly noble. Yet she learned one thing: death is not the end to a necromancer. It’s the start to a study and a beginning to beauty. What did it mean exactly? She didn’t question it.

“Is it true,” she starts, “that you’re the godson of the king?”

The assassins look up, a few of them glancing back and forth between the two. Yet Mohan nods, “That I am. He and my mother were fairly close when they were younger… or well, when _she_ was younger.”

“Is that why he’s training you like a Champion?”

“No…?” The Oracle squints, “He wanted to ensure I could handle myself in case of danger. Oracle Vollan can’t be the only one who has to protect her homeland and one day I hope to join her in rank… or out do her. Who knows?”

Is he dismissive or honest? Either way, it irritates the shit out of her. The smug smile he adds to the end of his comments does nothing but make her distrust him more. Is it the biased nature of her upbringing? Possibly. Things are stricter with noble blood, even more so with royalty. Perhaps she should learn to break those habits and learn to mingle with the commonwealth.

_Nah._

The lot of them are sick and ripe with filth. She’s seen those soldiers that come from the southern tip of the country. Most of them look as if a bath was something they’ve only heard of in legends while others probably only believe in dirt baths. Many of them don’t have teeth while some are either yellowed or black. Keeping her distance and sticking around fallen nobles was the safer idea to her. They are predictable and often recluse in their behavior… or at least the ones she’s met so far and the ones back home definitely were.

Nothing about him rings safe. The way he speaks of himself, as a man of the gods themselves, is almost like poetry. _Vainglorious poetry_, that is. The kind that praises the shit he believes he’s done but has no other person to vouch for him. “Only _I,_” he says. “No one has proven themselves _worthy,_” he boasts. It’s interesting… especially when it comes to speaking of the Garden of Ancients.

“I didn’t know you were from Crystalheim. It must be beautiful.”

“Oh, it is. I spent most of my childhood breathing life into that dead forest and no matter how lush that old wood was, it poisoned our croplands. Seeing it breathe with such high fields and green prairies makes me so very proud.”

Emmeline snorts, “You make it sound like you are its sole protector when it’s the community and the Empire that keeps you striving!”

This was a woman whom had been taught to read her enemies and kin alike. There’s much that body language can tell a person, but when it came to Oracles, she was always at a loss. One can barely read the emotion in those black eyes of theirs. But she watched Mohan’s demeanor change, the way his head tilted her way and his hands rested at his hip. He didn’t seem too pleased at her assumption.

“The empire doesn’t take care of Astani land despite it being _holy land_. That’s _our_ job, which eventually fell onto me. I’m not against it. I razed that land to see what would happen. Killed the soil so I could expose the dead, rotted roots that lie beneath it and… well, that’s how we learned how _dead_ the land really is.”

_There are so many graves and so many unspeakable beings._

He speaks as if he’s the one to bring glory to the land. A necromancer with a want to _give_ life rather than take it away. It’s… queer. Yet, she shakes her head, “It’s still a communal thing, Oracle. Your people can have Crystalheim survive without you.”

“You would be correct,” He started, “If not for the druids that came after the ruin of our home, it would have fallen due to low morale and heavy burial rates. We didn’t have them before the attack that destroyed two villages. However, I am persistent in my overlook of Crystalheim, _I_ know it will perish without consistency. Flowers will wilt. Rivers will run dry. Farmlands will wither. The people will die.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because I’ve watched it happen before and I can’t allow that to happen again.”

Before she gets another chance to say anything else, the door to the armory opens with a slow creak. With a few muffled words and couple nods, they watch as Jolyon gives a couple subtle bows and gentle smiles to invisible faces. With time, the quiet group of assassins make their way out with a greeting, leaving Jolyon to close the door behind the final straggler with sigh.

“Morning! Thought I’d let you two get familiar before I stepped in.”

Emmeline shrugs, “Was it worth sitting us uncomfortably in a room together?”

Jolyon nods, “Oh, I hope so by the end of this.”

There’s something about this stone room that feels right. The sun shining through the glass skylight to give sparkle to the old armory. It’s teeming with history in this little room. Armor that had seen centuries of battle and weapons that had been pass through generations of Royal blood and old legends. For Mohan, it was an extravagant sight. Armories back home were filled with pitchforks and frightfully old, rusted machetes and swords after the blacksmith had passed. There was no one to take care of it like there was within the castle. Made him hope that one day someone would end their Pilgrimage in Crystalheim and take over to re-spark the trade once more. Perhaps he’ll go looking when he’s finally able to return home…

The King speaks up again, “He will be going into the Ryja’s vault _alone._”

Emmeline took a fairly long blink, her head cocking with confusion, “You want to run that past me again?”

“I’m not sending you in. Your entire team has been pulled out.”

“You’re sending in someone who has no training in this? Do you want this child to die?”

Jolyon frowns, “Mohan is an excellent thief and he can’t learn to improve other skills if he doesn’t try and I, for one, believe that he will succeed… or we’re going to have a massive controversy that I want nothing of.”

Mohan steps forward, arms crossed over his chest and a tilt to his hip, “What was the purpose of having us _both_ here? Princess—”

“**_Captain._**”

“—**Captain **Westall could have been told without me… unless there’s more to this?”

“There’s always more.” He beings to walk the room, shoulders broad and hands behind his back, “I wanted Emmeline to tackle the estate with you, yes. She will handle the brutes and guards on the outside, but you will still go into that vault alone.”

“What’s the point of him going alone?” It’s an unreal feeling when some stranger is given a job they cannot handle. She was the War Commander back in Rovenica for goodness sake and now she was shoved from her pedestal by some no named Oracle who probably had never been in a fight in his entire life.

“The magical items in that vault must be handled with care. That being said, with what I have him looking for, it can only be obtained by anyone with magic… but I’d rather have a witch than a mage hunting for it. Witches don’t have guilty conscious like mages do.”

Mohan nodded slowly, “I can only do better by trial and error. If _you_ die, it could start something dire. If **_I_** die, well, let’s hope they don’t expect me to get back up.”

“What?” Emmeline questioned. “Nothing about this sounds like a good idea. You’re bound to trigger a war down in the Undergrounds.”

“I mean, that’s why I’m sending _him,_” Jolyon spoke up. “There’s already a war down in the Markets and I’m sure the Undergrounds is hot zone of who-knows-what!”

“Also, what would I have to lose?” Mohan bites his lip, “I, personally, hate feeling useless, Captain. The magical items may be beneficial and power is something I should hold in my position. If a war starts, unlike Kataleya, I’d rather show myself as a beacon of our Pantheon’s true power… and there’s nothing in the Word of Kos that ever mentions Kularis as a _benevolent_ Goddess.”

_For she is the eternal End and Death itself._

Jolyon smiles, the edges of his eyes wrinkling. In his heart, he feels it’s right to have someone as such tackle such a quest, preaching her scripture as it should be: “_With followers loyal, her selected are the law. They are her right and her left. Life and ruin, but ultimately the end to appease their Goddess of Black._” Someone has to properly speak praise of her.

“And that’s why I think he’ll be splendid on this challenge of his,” The King finally speaks. “He must learn that the gods have a purpose for him as they do all of their Oracles. And with that, he’ll be just as good as his predecessors, if not better that them. When a holy war actually hits—we’ll be prepared.”

But he never touches on the lust for power most of those Oracles gained in their quests to become leaders nor how it drags each one down into a ruin so devastating the madness eats them whole. Emmeline know it’ll come. Mohan will see his peak then fall like the rest…

Then again… there could be hope. He _could_ succeed and the King could create one of the strongest warriors of this era. But only time will tell and as much as she wants to openly fight against it, Emmeline knows the truth. Denial against the King is punishable to most, yes. It’s a devastating blow to those who stand up to their beliefs and attempt to sway a man too stubborn. However, for her, it’s the disappointment of not believing in his objective.

Nevertheless, Emmeline stands up straight, hands behind her back and head up. She ought to swallow her pride and accept no change will come. Jolyon had made his decision. Now it was to see how it ends.


	4. Rumors

Two days. That’s what Jolyon gave Mohan and it almost felt like a punishment. He had two days to prepare. Two days to stand idle while one singular seamstress worked her magic on an outfit that made him blend in. Two days before he has to prove himself to a King that only accepts _success._ And he’s not ready for _that._ Mohan’s been in fist fights, yes. Made a name for himself down in the Pits back in Steinhaven for fun, but it was the fight in Estelle that held Jolyon in such high hopes that Mohan was perfect for what he was building.

“Do you believe the King, Ser Oracle? Making a witch a god that is?”

Mohan questioned it once before and was only given one answer: Jolyon was building _a god… _in a sense, that is. From there, the idea of it just swam listlessly in his head. A God? **_Him?_** He could laugh but Jolyon’s behavior has always been fueled with ridiculous ideas teeming with trial and error, but… This might be interesting… to an extent. Then again, ideas like this run rampant through the manor and never end well. Once he’s free to return home, Mohan knows he’ll enjoy the silence of not being around constant gossip and drama… and ridiculous desires run by pure impulse.

Mohan gave the seamstress a quick glance, watching as she cautiously closed a seam at his neck with a tiny needle. He sighs, “Is that what the rumor is? I mean, someone of _my_ status wouldn’t fight for it, of course. It’s happened where someone poor and uneducated has become great, but Oracle Vollan would be looked at first.”

She glances up. There’s something about Moon Elves that entice him—_the eyes._ They glow with such an unnatural sparkle that keeps him so focused on them. Those green orbs of hers even shimmer without sunlight even if she did have the aid of the large window in the back of her haberdashery. Alas, she looks away, returning to open seam at his collar, “Has it? That doesn’t explain why the King would try to push someone poor up into that status again.”

“Do you think any of our gods and pantheons cared about the wealth they had? Do you think elven nomads held an anything when they traveled the oceans with Syvis?”

A scoff, “Just because you know of our gods doesn’t mean you know everything about them.”

“But it holds a point. Kularis was a witch before she was a leader. And even then, she was warlord before she was a god and there’s nothing in our books to prove she ever sought out an education or money. Instead, she fought for power and the lives of her people before she became the first Emperor. Gods can start from anything.”

_As long as they have faith and a devout following._

Funny thing that.

Oracles are not born in the nation of Barrowlea, they are recreated—_reborn,_ if Mohan could say so. Out of eight live two among different continents, all of them bestowed walking a path left for them by their creator. Each set has a specific ability given that is blessed from the gods themselves to give them a power none can grasp and a simple look to keep them separated from the rest. There does sit a touch of jealous among the other types of Oracles. Mohan has always been enthused by the sight of the phoenix wings graced upon the Queen of Crows and her protégée. Yet, unlike he and Kataleya, they are born rather than resurrected. For them it’s a sign of reincarnation once a mentor dies. But for Barrowlea, they follow the Mother’s steps to the core—rebirth after tragedy. For many, it’s a sign of baptism or a second chance. Kataleya’s was a baptism in icy waters while Mohan’s was a second chance at the bottom of a waterfall’s cliff.

However, he’s not going to tell the seamstress that…

Instead, Mohan closes his eyes for a moment, “Never doubt the rise of a god. All of them are different—even when it comes to cults of which one is only based because a man read a piece of paper that said ‘Live like a god, eat like a god,’ and it only pertained to a restaurant, but to him it was the beginning.”

“Mhm…” There’s the snap of thread and she’s knotted it smoothly. “For the longest time, I believed that only mages could rule this position.”

“Nah.” He shakes his head, “Oracle Vollan isn’t a mage. She’s an alchemist. From what I’ve seen, there are only two mages and myself.”

“And if they die?”

“Others will eventually come.”

The seamstress is quiet for a moment as she tugs on the freshly lain leather straps at his clothing then steps back to admire her work. “I’m hurt that I have to cover up all your little marks and tattoos. They are all so beautiful.”

“Thank you. You’d be the first to say it.”

The seamstress snorts, “You’re telling me you don’t have someone fawning over you to tell you the same?”

“I wish, but...” He gives her a gesture of a long skinny, blackened finger swirling about his face, “This is the ugly mug of a man most see as the spawn of the Red King or some faithless demon luring people into their demise.”

Those eyes of hers narrow for a moment, “Is it because of the book that doctor wrote? I heard about it when I travelled here with Captain Westall. She hadn’t stopped talking about how Oracles are supposed to lead us into safety, but you just watched him die.”

“I had no choice. Dr. Sybel was ill and slowly descending into madness from the disease of his mind… What can I really do about that?”

Within the Imperial capital sit a handful of researchers who’ve dedicated their lives of answering the riddle of Oracles. All of them sat with the similar question of “are they gods or some god-like entity” where skeptics shot straight through the middle in a massive hoard of hardcore dedicated doubters. To them, Oracles were nothing but demons living within the hosts of the dead. Yet with exorcisms and condemning, nothing has proven their words true… but that doesn’t stop the wandering minds of the public sniffing out conspiracy theories. However, that book did bring up one thing that most and many never quite bring up.

Oracles are devout followers, Mohan is not. Sybel knew that. Many have strayed from the Sacellum to form cults and abused the power for wealth and stature to keep their god complex strong and prevalent. To them they _were _the gods and to Mohan, they still haven’t proved themselves worthy of it. A “god” wouldn’t allow such madness to run rampant on their lands. A “god” would refuse to let their evils tear apart the land to bring chaos and death to the creatures _they _created. Oracles, if Mohan could speak plainly, were nothing but overpowered warriors.

But Jolyon held this idea to change that. Within his excitement, he was going to craft a God before the eyes of his country with a smile on his face even if it meant failing a few times before getting it right. Jolyon was to prove that godhood was meant for those who sought out to help rather than lock themselves up in a castle in the middle of nowhere, murdering hundreds for the sake of sacrifice. And Mohan did think on it. Mayhaps being a borderline god isn’t too bad… but that’s the thought of rogues and the narcissistic who want the power for others to fear them.

“Stories say you killed him after his professed his love to you—shirt off, watch the rest of the pins.”

With an awkward shuffle and a snort of annoyance, Mohan could understand the rumors. They lingered through royal and noble circles for months without wondering _why_ he would attempt to fight the scholar. Yet, he knew better than that. People held an adoration for the dramatics. However, before he could speak again, the door to the small haberdashery is closed with a squeak. White hair smoothed from her face in a tight ponytail, Emmeline leans against the old mahogany door with a toothy grin—almost as if she had been wanting a story that would ruin the young man, “Go on. Spill everything.”

With a set of muffled grunts, Mohan shimmies another shirt back on, “I’m not very good at telling tragic love stories.” 

“Do your best, Ívarr.”

“No. I did not kill Sybel.” There was more to that story. A man in love. A priest uninterested… Disaster. Mohan never understood how that book and all those letters gained so much traction after Sybel died when they were of a madman confessing his love for anyone who wasn’t his wife. No… that’s too kind. He didn’t understand why they latched onto the idea of his ramblings of stalking young boys who’ve yet to hit puberty were anything but negative. “You have to understand, I was a child when he confessed. Even though I wasn’t the direct end to him, it brought me comfort that someone like him wasn’t preying on someone else. His direct behavior just about ruined any other relationship I tried to make… even when it comes to… something like,” he chews on his lip for a moment, “love or… a romantic relationship.”

His voice trails, but they hear him clearly over the _thunks_ and _groans_ of the seamstress’ sewing machine. He doesn’t speak more on it, but it’s clear on the situation to Emmeline—it’s miscommunication. A man who’s experienced the world and everything it’d give him trying his best to woo a sheltered Oracle. Sounds like the makeup to a play, really. Instead she sighs, arms crossed over her chest and lips scrunched just a bit. Hearing his side makes her think. She was in that position not that long ago. Her name in the paper declaring her an enemy to homeland and a disappointment to her Kingdom. She knows what it’s like to have the world feel as if they’re against them, people spitting at her feet and turning their backs to her words. It’ll simply take him a while to raise his confidence.

Maybe Jolyon _does _think of everything…

She curses under her breath, “I understand… To an extent. The public eye is never good... _Especially _with misinformation." the Captain huffs, "I suppose the only advice I can give here is that the rumors will grow and contort into some tainted fiend you can’t destroy. So rather than dispelling fiction, you just… ignore it. Build from it. _Hm…_” She circles the young Oracle, studying his features—the light cluster of black scale up the left side of his neck and down his shoulder, the freckles on brown cheeks, the light scars that leave bare skin exposed through his scruff. “Perhaps after this adventure, you’ll actually mean more to people stand as a fabricated gossip. But we’ll see.”


	5. Faux Gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ever look at a chapter and think it feels super long?  
yeah.  
so i cut the previous chapter in half--

Things are different here, aren’t they? He’s still yet to get used to it. Mohan’s used to the quiet. He’s used to the odd sightings of deranged travelers who want nothing but a sip of water and an apple as they continued on their merry way muttering to themselves about nothing. No one is in your business down in the holy states. No one cares aside from the noisy drama that comes about every so often. Your life is _yours._

Yet, he learned quickly from soothsayers and “psychics” that people were bound to intervene into his life uncaring of how intruding it may be. He really should have listened closer to that goat man…

The man stood hunched before him, a wet, blood-drenched, snow covered, pack sat tied at his back, but his face was masked to the world in a decaying, fur covered mask. He was real, Mohan knew that. The stench of it all made his stomach turn, but the eyes of that mask kept moving… All six of them, red and glowing, all focused on him. His horns were chipped and the teeth were more than yellowed, but it stood out to him.

A warning.

“They’ll never free themselves from your story… So make’em listen to you. Make them fear what beasts fester in your magic, My Lord… Or they _will_ kill you. Or worse—someone you love will be the first to carve out your heart and devour your power.”

That laugh of his was clear that winter’s morn, a cackle that rested in “hee’s” and “hoo’s” as he sauntered past. Perhaps he should have taken it to heart… No pun intended. Somehow, situations like this bring him back to that meeting of a strange old man, making his way shoeless through the snow, leaving a trail of red behind him and now once did Mohan think twice about it.

Not as much as his mind lingered on everything else.

Emmeline’s words hung over him like an old storm cloud. He was here because of what happened in Estelle a few years prior, but no one else cared about that other than the King and the Versailean Commander. Mohan knew Jolyon’s agenda was to train him. “An Oracle had to know how to protect themselves,” they said. It was the safest way to have him learning under them to know his magic was in check rather than throwing him to the wolves of the academies. It felt too late, for Mohan to be schooled, that is. He could barely read and scraped by just enough to know how to write his own name. And even then, Damien and his small group taught him what they knew so far. So, what else was there for him here? It definitely was not to build friendships amongst these brutes. They don’t care about him. These people don’t _know_ him here and if they claimed otherwise, it was only through the false stories and assumptions spread by gossip. So why was he _really _here? To actually wield the power of the pantheons? How hilarious. To become an excellent warrior—now _that_ he could believe.

To stand at the shoulders of fighters is what he wanted. For years, he would watch them from the sidelines with a tinge of jealousy tickling at his heart knowing that they were unwavering beasts. So why not take the offer while it sits in the palms of frightening men? It makes the idea of these agonizing sessions so much bearable. At the end, he’d be left to his own to learn as he pleased and anywhere he’d want. However, he’d be free of those soldiers and their hyper-fixated personalities focused on him and free of their mocking whispers behind hollow eyes. But it brought an interesting thought: a nobody brought in under someone with status makes that one singular person the enemy of the grounds. They care not of whom you are and what you’ve accomplished, _you_ have intervened on _their_ progression. **_You_** have become the person every higher-up has focused on when **_they_** have been there for far much longer. Mohan has come to terms with this. It took him a while, yes, but it is a curious situation.

No one cared of his title. No one cared that Mohan was exactly that—_a nobody._ He was the youngest child of seven children from a couple of farmers in a village filled with other nobodies… but locations matter. Names _matter. **Statuses matter.**_ And it was odd, of course. To the nosy poorer soldiers, Mohan was another spoiled nobleman. To the rich and noble he was a hindrance to their goal.

It’s unfortunate, sadly. Both sides saw him as an obstacle, treating him like the unfortunate illegitimate child. To the nobles and royal blood, he was another witch! Another unskilled magical treated as if he wasn’t the problem plaguing their lands and the reason the war started in the first place. _But he had to be the chosen one of the Kings…_ despite his heavy title…

Nevertheless, Mohan tries to push through the scowls and ugly faces with a neutral face and his head held high knowing all of their snide comments and disrespect meant nothing without provocation… Then again, barbarians don’t understand what it means to _not_ have provocation.

It’s a fascinating thing, that. Being surrounded by soldiers angry of your presence that they demand to know why. Why _you_? What makes _you_ more worthy than those who’ve fought their way up a ladder so **prestige** that it took them **_years_** to make it up that far? They were questions Mohan held no answer to. He was no soldier. He held no training as they did. Was he supposed to be dragged through the sludge and back as his mentor did? Perhaps. She was a soldier. She grew up at the side of the Crown-Prince and died protecting him as hundreds of others had.

But Oracle Mohan Ívarr is not Knight-Oracle Kataleya Vollan. Unfortunately, rules change and situations evolve, however the people still care nothing of it. They want their power as everyone else usually does.

And nothing says Mohan doesn’t live out of spite. Especially with a swarthy man before him, filthy fingers wrapped around the wrist of the young Oracle, Mohan can feel frustration rising. If he was going to fight for his respect from others, he ought to put his foot down eventually. Having these people, spitting in his face, yelling nonsensical bullshit and demands from him only reminded him of simplicities: _perfection comes from spite and dedication…_ and he **_thrives_** on spite. His magic wouldn’t be where it is, creeping up the silhouette of this man with black, snake like tendrils that wrapped around his legs, then his body, locking him into place to silence him, if not fueled with annoyed spite.

And annoyed spite is all you truly need when it comes to a boost of confidence.

Then again, sometimes you forget where you are and that boost of confidence withers away into an anger you never see coming. That’s how the pit fights went. All that annoyance pooled down in the pit of his gullet and became nothing but a series of sirens that lit up his nerves and turned the skies black. And with the man standing before him, bubbles of spit at his lip, became nothing but a muddied sound of white noise.

What did he do to deserve this?

Die?

That’s not a good reason. He could be chasing this on his own accord, not suffering through it under the hatred of jealous onlookers. He could have climbed through the ranks at the side of his best friend and his brother, yet instead, he was to guess and fumble his way through with the hopes of succeeding with a slap in the face.

Because that’s how this was done… right?

That man is still standing there, a head taller than he and just as vile as he smelled. Josef, the onlookers called him, barked words Mohan had long tuned out. With the time he had spent there on the estate, he had grown accustomed to their words and their frustration towards him. At least to the Astani, he was someone. They stood up for him when they could and fought when they had to. There was no fear when his people held the love and hope he assumed others would carry… Apparently, with that thought, he was more sheltered than he believed.

“…you listenin’ boy?” He wasn’t. “Go back to y’ little church in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere where you can pretend that god will save you while the big boys handle shit here.” He couldn’t have been older than him, that Josef. He stood a head taller than him, or as tall as a hunched man could. He had sun-damaged skin and pocked cheeks that made him look as if the putrid waters of the swamps had taken a toll on him. “This land is made for Champions, and you ain’t one.”

Sometimes, one must endure. Whatever the beating you get is the one that teaches you a lesson in the end. Mohan learned that, coughing into a puddle of his own blood down in Steinhaven. Yet, even then, time and time again he succeeded. He crawled himself free of the hole he found himself deep within and clawed himself to the top of the mountain of bodies.

But that doesn’t impress. Nor does fight of Port Estelle mean anything to these brutes… At least in Estelle, he saved a hamlet with the dead of their enemy at the side of the allied Generals. However? Why worry? Why does he care? He should care not of what these men care of his successes and instead thrive to continue forward! The thought of it eats away at him as it did when he chased the pit wins. He could do so much damage and ensure so much fear deep within the bellies of these brutes…

Although it reminds him of the day he arrived in Dómrien. Lord General Calvet would teach him that no matter what, everything was to be taken as a lesson. Then there was Jolyon. The King’s teachings were simple for his godson—_magic isn’t always needed._ He was to know how to dance like other fighters could as well as they could. It may take him a moment to react and that was fine, he was learning. Lessons were dealt in absolutes: if they strike first, you strike _harder._ If **_you_** strike first, make sure to break something. 

And unfortunately for Josef, he was on the end of that lesson.

Perhaps it’s exhaustion. No, it’s a man fed up with the people around him… and sometimes, you have to speak the language of the Barbarians.

Because sometimes… Sometimes… you just… _snap._

It burns in his body like a loud anger that snatches the man off guard with a swing of his fist. It reminds him of how messy those pit fights would get, how he’d forget the purpose of it all and just let go. Sound became nothing but muffled grunts and silent cursing as his hands wrapped around the greasy, stubbled neck of the older man… but he could feel it… those black, curious tendrils of his magic crawling down his arms, curling like snakes as they slithered downward.

Yet no one steps up for that man. It was his fight, of course. He could handle it—or that was the thought, at least. The onlookers watched as the swarthy man struggled ‘neath the grip of the younger fighter, blood now seeping free from his throat as those talon-like nails dug deeper into greasy flesh. He can feel the man’s legs kick and his body surge to push him off.

Mohan had long accepted what he was. He was a **witch** whether they wanted to admit it or not. He was the high priority of the Sacellum. _Why do they care?_ But if this is the face they wanted… it was one they were bound to get.

The one laced in anger and untapped _spite._

Is it fear that locks them into place? Some magic was hard to see. Some held a color to it that gave it that whimsy beauty that excited people watching from afar… And yet, there was Mohan’s… Black and lingering like creeping shadows that held others in their place. It spoke to them. It whispered languages to them they could never understand and left a cold chill in their body. However, even with time, they eventually pulled away with a staggered trip, in hopes to not be caught up in the focused anger of the Oracle. Nevertheless, it rose only one question to Mohan: If he was the one thing jumbling these soldiers, why not continue? Why not bleed into the fantasy that Jolyon perpetuated? If he was going to be molded into a god, he might as well strike fear into others as a god would… starting with this one. This one, lowly whelp of a man, turning grey beneath his blackened fingers, gasping for air.

“Ívarr please!” There’s still someone there. “He’s gonna die. You think he’s learned his lesson?”

He lets go, hands up and a slow, empty gaze turned towards the last man, “I doubt it… I’m tired of the bullshit narrative that I **_must_** be kind to all of you.” Letting the man go, Mohan stands tall, the now limp soldier coughing as he finally gets the air back into his lungs, those inky colored tentacles disappearing back into the casted shadow of its user and free from view.

“We jest, Ívarr, I promise you. It’s harmless hazing.” That stranger’s hands are up, but Mohan doesn’t buy it. Hazing among the common soldiers is different than an attempt to push them out.

“Harmless ha—this is _not_ harmless hazing!” He doesn’t care anymore does he? The idea that a God is watching him leaves nothing to quite fear anymore and to move on without hesitation meant to ensure they couldn’t intimidate him. “Keep your friends in check, or I will do it myself.” The soldier is silent. “Do I make myself clear?” The rain is loud now. “**_I asked a question_**.” Is he really human? The last soldier’s nodding to his question, yes, but the voice that came from him came distorted—_evil_ almost. Even as Josef still gasped for air, the sound of him gasping for air though wheezing coughs, left that thought lingering.

If he’s a demon, they saw it firsthand… but if this is just an inkling of what terror truly lies in controlled magic? To them, he deserves the praise. Although to Mohan, mayhaps, following rumors that is, being a faux god wouldn’t be too bad. Then again, perhaps being in the training yard this morning was a terrible idea to follow all of this. With the discolored man at his feet and the soldier hovering over to ensure the bully’s safety, Mohan couldn’t think of the chatter that’d follow.

Yet as the other soldier nod, there’s an internal ease on his nerves. That spark of confidence leaving his heart pounding. It’s euphoric… _deadly._ “Good.”


	6. Lord Oracle

Who is Oracle Mohan Ívarr? People assume they know, but it’s never the truth is it? He doesn’t care for telling other’s either. He’s Astani, and that’s a public fact. He’s one of the lowest classes within Barrowlea despite his ties to the Merchants guild and the Champion’s Guild. But they are an illustrious folk, the Astani are. One of the largest groups of indigenous factions within the nation, but not the only one. In spite of how the Royal sectors see them, they are the only true protectors of the Holy Lands and the only ones who grace the sanctum of churches and shrines. Most become paladins and clerics to further their dedication and others happily live among the land to simply do better. Yes, it’s not the best life, but it’s theirs and riddled with tradition and culture the Royal never see… Not saying there aren’t those who chase for wealth and fortune, that is.

It’s a happy life for Mohan. Simple. Easy. Leaves him in gardens for hours on end. It allows him to work mindlessly. Then again, necromancy seems to fall into that group as well. It’s simply something that just came natural to him—like a doe to water.

Perhaps it’s not quite that mindless, the gardening. It’s how he studies life. Plants grow and strive under the Mother’s sun and reach high for Her warmth, but with time, he’s watched them wither at his feet, turn to nothing in his palms. And why is that? He’s questioned it before. Heard from druids that it’s because plants have finally made it to their end seeing how they are the only living creatures that know death more than those with heartbeats. To die when winter breathes its quiet lullaby and to revive when spring sings its alluring song.

Simplistic, isn’t it? Not too much, but just enough. It’s a story that if those were truly curious would be given from the priest himself. They’d at least learn of proud heritage and overwhelming excitement to be so far from the Holy Garden. Or at least, they would have at the beginning. It’s been long stomped out of him now. All because of silly rumor and bias towards a lovestruck professor who had no chance.

He can’t keep telling that story. People want it to change, but he was young, what could he expect? Mohan had a young heart and that young heart was infatuated with someone he could never have. No one cares about that. They thrive on that drama of known scholar falling in love with a child. Leaving his beloved _for a child._ If _seventeen_ counts as a **child.** That’s been the argument. Love a man you don’t want or subject a teenager to the taboo of being with a man twenty years his senior.

Sadly enough, it’s the story he tells more than he should. As if no one else is as interested as Sybel was. In the beginning he wanted to learn. He wanted to hear the story of what makes Oracles _tick—_what was the one thing that made them different? That was the goal of the project and yet… here stands the public, nosy as ever, beguiled in the final letters of a sick man.

He sighs.

Just another thing he has to deal with.

Yet, positives do lie in his wake—no one but Jolyon and (now) Emmeline knows of his sticky fingers.

“What is it about you that makes people uncomfortable, Lord Oracle?”

Every day brings a new face. Some are interesting in their visits within the Chapel, others… not so much. They came with complaints that their sad lives were being tainted by impure thoughts and desire to seduce someone that wasn’t their betrothed. Or, the usual, “I slept with a prostitute, absolve me so my soul may ascend,” and they expect a wave of fingers and a “She forgives you” to clear it all up.

“Is this something that’ll be used against me?”

“No, sir. I’m genuinely piqued.”

Mohan leans back in the pew with a huff. He had spoken with a few people before she decided to take a seat beside him. At the side of a guard, she had assisted in draping a fresh, warm towel around damp shoulders to allow him to at least dry his rain-soaked hair. At least the softness of the towel was heavenly, “It’s probably the necromancy. It’s probably the fact that I don’t mind holding conversations with our dead. You learn something from ancient souls all the time.”

She’s a maid, one he’s never seen, and probably won’t see again. Pretty though. She’s a round girl with steel grey eyes, soft rosy-brown cheeks and braided dark hair. Just from the way she speaks, curious and kind, makes him hope they’ll cross paths again.

“They said your magic is alive.”

“What magic isn’t?”

“But yours is different. You can feel it where most of us who’ve never held a magical bone in their body has never felt something like that. Is it evil? Have you tamed it?” Her voice drops, “Have you ever encountered an evil spirit?”

“It’s evil in the wrong hands. Tamed it? No. Spirits? Yes. I have met many; you just have to know how to quell them. But I speak with them frequently and listen to them even more.” Mohan adjust once more in his seat, “I wouldn’t have made it this far without their teachings.”

“Honestly, that would explain why it thrives the way it does.”

“What has you interested?”

The maid crossed her legs at the ankle and gave him a playful smirk, “Gossip makes you curious about a lot of things and I don’t care about the mess of relationships.”

“That’s fair. Unless… there’s more to this?” She stirs quietly. “What is it?”

“I’m… technically not supposed to be here. I just wanted to see what people were afraid of.”

“And people are afraid of me?”

She chews at her lip, “The soldiers are. The maids are… but they think it’s just your magic that makes you... evil.”

Mohan turns to give her his full attention, tucking his feet beneath him, “You don’t think so?”

“My father is a disgraced Magister. Studying magic was of high importance. I learned five dialects of Dwarven languages, old Astani dialects, and Ancient Elvish so I could understand runes because I wanted to learn to imbue. Quickly learned that ordinary humans can’t do that, but I could decipher and understand languages as well as any spy… but they don’t care about those talents once you fall.”

He frowns, “What was your name?”

“Nadia.”

“And you know linguistics and rune reading?”

“Yes.”

“You should not be a maid.”

She sighs, “But that’s life isn’t it?” With that she stands, fixing the edges of her uniform before giving a quiet bow to the young Oracle. “My break is over. Thank you for the chat, Lord Oracle.”

There are always meetings like these. Many that never quite have an ending, and yet they hold promise. The ones who are forced into silence hold stories that are ponderous. They speak the volumes muted by others because the fallen are nothing once grace is gone.

A shame, really.

However, it doesn’t mean it’s over for some of them. If the promise is there, someone ought to find them and spread the glory of their name somehow. And as an Oracle? He can do that. He can free them. That’s the power he should wield. The power to make his people better. To make them strong. All while stripping the wrong from it. Like stealing the power from the diabolical and tainting it before their very eyes clad in darkness.

As an Oracle should.

_As a thief should._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> though a new chapter, yes, this one was rearranged with a few others to kinda clean up the mess of lost information. this might happen a couple times because i hate going back through it and finding something that doesn't make sense because of my negligence. thanks for sticking with me!


	7. God Complex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you made it this far. thank you.

“Lord Oracle?”

“Hm?”

“Mind if I pick your brain?”

“What about?”

“How do you handle death? I’ve sat through many a sermon and listened to monks and priests tell me that you can never quite get over it… but I’ve seen you so stoic and so strong at funerals and watching you handle such grave news—how do you do it?”

“It’s difficult. Everyone handles it differently. I wouldn’t base it off how _I_ do it. I just… muscle through a lot of it.”

It sounds horrible, doesn’t it? The sight of death has become fairly normal. He was still a child when he resurrected his first creature. Mohan could remember bringing home a half dead, white rabbit, covered in mud and gore, and holding it up to his mother who stared at him bug-eyed and horrified while he stood with a toothy grin on his face.

“So, can I power through it?”

Mohan’s quiet for a moment, “You shouldn’t. It’s not healthy. You should grieve and allow your body to be sad or relieved. You’ll feel pain when you lose loved ones, or relief when enemies fall, but you must give yourself time to heal then move forward for them. Don’t muscle through it, it’ll eat away at your mind and leave you more wounded than you were before. Cry as much as you need to then stand up tall to be strong for your fallen.”

There’s a smile given as she stands from the pew. Every face he holds is different and this one is one of kindness (even if it had been caught in the rain). However, that’s what he wants people to see—_kindness._ They deserve a smile in these times of warfare. Even his enemies are at that level when he’s exhausted with their aggravation towards him. Yet, as she leaves him, Mohan’s left to the silence of the estate’s tiny chapel. Not even the birds singing above made things any easier.

Death is an unfortunate, isn’t it? Lives of the mortal are precious, yet in sight of the war that plagued Barrowlea, it almost came that mortality had become a luxury only humans could hold. And he had seen that play out across cities as he grew older. It came all at once, the rise of bodies did. Often were they bundled in groups of private citizens ripped from their homes and dragged through crowds screaming for justice. Those were his first outside of the occasional viewing of hunters killing animals and butchers skinning them for food. But these haunted him far more than any animal. He could remember the prayer a woman cried as they strapped her to a wooden post, demanding that Kularis respond to their tears and worship. However nothing prepared him for the sounds of others pouring in their support of her.

_Holy mother, creator of the Kosmos, beacon for all that is, save your people from a death unwarranted. Sustain me with your everlasting light so I may cast it to guide your followers into Hevel so they may return as your holy warriors to smite their wrongdoers._

Her screams haunted him for years and the smell of her body being burned at the stake left him ill. But he remembered the sight of her. The horrors of her body left a stain in his mind as her skin turned black as it blistered and her eyes popped from the heat that lapped at her convulsing corpse. From here, it could have built him into a fine necromancer. In truth, it did, at the cost of much. The smell of cooked meat may have made him sick, but the study of bodies and how magic could breathe life back into their broken bones fascinated him even further.

_However._

Though the smell of burning magic filled his clothes and the stench of rotted mass stained his hair and skin, it left him hyper-fixated on the prayers of their people. They demanded a holy light, one from a goddess hell-bent on bathing herself in the blood of her enemies. They saw her as a saint, even in their dying moments where she was nothing but a monster dressed as one. Sadly, the hard part is convincing them otherwise.

Stories and bibles focus on the tiny features of her kindness. The All-Mother stood for her people. She blessed them with the light of the heavens so they could see the skies and the earth around them outside of the dark in full, lustrous colors as they should have from the day they graced her land until the moments they perished. And that’s it. That the story they preach in sermons. That’s the story they leave illustrated for children in books. Mother Kularis, the Saint. The All-Protector. The Goddess of Light… and the “Dark” is usually crossed out and seen as too nefarious for children to hear. She’s not _dark,_ per-se… Just… has her moments of fury.

Unfortunately, that has been something he had been forced to tell children who question of her, but children are children. Their interests lie in chaos and action. Telling them the stories of how she led armies of the dead behind her, the masses of her warriors pounding at their shields as they marched into the thick of war intrigued them far more than some story about how she made birds to mimic her cousins. Now if only adults were just as enthused by the truth.

Or well, adults other than Jolyon, that is.

Alas, all of it does make him think. If death is what creates a Kularian Oracle, what exactly are they mimicking in power? Stories weave about how their appearance is that of the ancients. The ability they acquired were those specific of her pantheon, mimicking them to a fine point and following their rise to divinity just as they did—and it made no sense. From birth some of these Oracles are to follow closely behind the god they resemble most? And how? How are they to figure out that it is so precise and so exact?

Is there a God of Plagues or is it just the black that followed Kularis? Was she really a necromancer or did people assume because of what she was—_the devourer of devils—_with murderous intent, and saw her unhealthy infatuation with blood and genocide as that of the _first_ necromancer? Were they even magical beings or were they just abominations seen as warriors?

Mohan could preach and preach about the true stories of their Goddess of Black. He could spend hours telling the story of her creation from beginning to the end and still be fought with hostility of the people whom never wanted to know the truth. There’s nothing he could do with how warped their minds were over the centuries of her history watered down to placate the passes to the extent that these were the people who became the hivemind. They became the ones disgustingly dedicated her, trying again, again, and again to eliminate the voice proclaiming logic of their gods despite the fact that it’s what she would have wanted them to do. The wanton destruction and death that sullied her cities for eons under her rule is what kept her youthful and ripe with a power unknown to millions beneath her steeled boot. Yet, it’s never bring a point aside from the fact that she build them into this… Her “word,” that is. The “word” that informs the masses that her heart may have been pure for her people, but by the gospel of the heavens, she was the reason the end was feared. She was the reason **death** was a staple of her country.

And by the Gods above, on the lives of her children and her pantheon, the people would never accept her as the reckoning that she was.

_Sigh._

** _Fucking barbarians…_ **

Why does he put up with it? Mohan willingly goes out of his way to all of these little lessons to hear someone drone over a bible he cares nothing for and force him to read parchments he can’t. Why must he continue? In his heart and mind, Mohan is not fit for a holy man’s position, never has been either. However, it’s not to say that he doesn’t dwell on the thought that he’d be fairly decent as a priest if his heart were in the right place.

But the life of being limited was simply not made for him. It wasn’t made for someone wanted to see the world for what it was worth in gold and gems. He wanted the treasures that lie just a touch out of his reach and _that_ alone would be frowned upon. It’s unfortunate, really, but too delicious to avoid. He may not be fit to sway masses in the gospel of the gods, but Jolyon saw past that. So, there sits a bonus… At least.

Nevertheless, Mohan slouches in his seat, hands over his face, as he groans in frustration. Mayhaps he’s overestimating the future. Perhaps all this training will leave him in the shadows of the world as it collapses on itself, leaving him standing in the distance as the plains of his homeland burns ‘neath his feet…

And yet, there’s always something…

“You know, Damien taught me something.”

Mohan takes a second to adjust in his spot, not quite sitting up, but stretching out to crane his head back further to watch the top of Jolyon’s head appear into view. Quietly, he makes his way to the altar, fingers grazing over the old wood before leaning over it.

“What did you learn if you didn’t already know it?”

Jolyon smiles, “How to read my god-son. It’s an excellent book.” He’s making his way back down the aisle, “He looked at me earlier and just laid it out—“Far more simpler than you think,” he said. I believe him.”

“Earlier?”

“Made it in this morning with his crew and that brat prince, Bartholomew. But he left me with very kind wisdom and taught me how to read your mind without ever asking what was wrong. It’s not going to kill you to talk to me, Mohan.”

He sits up finally and stares at the King for a moment. His throat feels dry, but he seems to shake it, “There is nothing wrong.”

The Eastern King snorts, “Bullshit. Let’s try that again.”

There’s something about Jolyon that brings comfort to Mohan. He’s a regal man, yes, but not one to flaunt his royalty. He was a rather large man, Jolyon was. A few shades darker than Mohan with even longer black and white hair that he’d keep pulled into a braided bun adorned with little trinkets his daughter had made for him. It was a soothing sight outside how he presented himself to others. He’d loom over his Royal kin with a neutral face and quiet demeanor until a sword graced his hand and even then the rest of the Royals knew to stand free of his swing. They feared him, as most do, when there was nothing _to_ fear other than a casual fist fight.

It’s the down to earth personality he held. One gentle and accepting when many felt as if they were failing whereas other royals and the leaders of their armies would kick another while they were down to watch them suffer. He was the one there to lift up others, as he’s trying to do with Mohan.

“What exactly are you trying to accomplish with this mission?”

“Honestly, it’s not _me_ trying to accomplish anything but ensuring that I have trained you right.”

“But why?”

“Because no one wants an impotent Oracle who never utilizes his strength.” Jolyon scrunches his lips for a moment before taking a seat beside his god-son, slouching enough to the point that his knees pressed against the pew in front of them. “What got you into doing pit fights?”

“Your soldiers shoved me into the middle of the pit and had me fight a ‘Cristwel Perfected’ Champion.”

“That’s it?”

“I wanted to prove that I could beat him. Took me _months_, but since then I craved that excitement of that win. I may not be _great_, but I felt more alive in there than I did standing behind a podium.”

“Are you against what I want you to do, then?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You already know the answer to that, Jolyon.”

Not a wasted breath nor a second wasted when he responds. It doesn’t leave Jolyon surprised as much as it leaves him more interested than he was in the beginning. Just shy of a few years prior, his goal was to ensure that Mohan could one day become a Knight-Oracle as Kataleya had. It was a position to keep him as a fighter, rather than a priest… but now? Now Jolyon simply wanted to push something different. Knight-Oracle is quite the status, but was it really worth it for him? Mohan wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t being prepped for war; he was being prepped for tight fights and espionage.

The boy could barely read and he could memorize a map and adhere to the rules of a fight better than any other rouge or outlaw he had ever witnessed. And it could stem from his persistence, of course… Or the fact that his mother was one of his so called “Cristwel Champions.” Mohan wanted to become a fantastic fighter and an even better thief, but with what he was and where he stood in the world… could he? Could Mohan potentially just build a legion of devout warriors that were like-minded as he was if he were allowed to? Perhaps. Mohan could potentially lead a group of those like him who wanted to fight for their homeland and ignore the religious connotation of power that lurked through, empowering them, just to see glory.

Now that was a test for another day.

“I don’t blame you for not wanting any of this. I just want to see you succeed.”

“Does that mean I can skip out on these bible lessons?”

He flashes another smile, “I’ll think about it… and please? I suggest you attempt to visit Damien before you disappear. It’s up to you if you want him to know what you’ve been up to… or let him hear the rumors of you scaring religious soldiers into believing you’re the second coming. Not to judge you… or whatever…”

_For now, however, keep this in mind: you don’t have to believe in the gods to be** feared like one.**_


	8. The Prince, The Protector, and the Oracle.

There’s happiness within simplicities and ecstatic joy after frustration with complexities. Tears are shed when a battle is won even if it’s nothing more than two lovers finding happiness among their own personal freedom. It’s a beautiful sight. Time and time again, couples would unite under the leafy roof of his prairie garden where they’d whisper nothings to one another. Some of them sparkled through exasperated smiles as they held their other close, speaking into their arms of their other… It’s a lovely sight, always… if there wasn’t a tinge of jealousy lingering in the back of his mind.

It’s something Mohan always wanted. In silence, he’d watch gentle faces glow with happiness as their lovers held them close or watch them break down as proposals were uttered. They were brave souls, fighting for their own pocket of happiness… Although, it’s trepidation that stops Mohan.

He’s only heard stories of people falling in love. Mohan could recount those moments of hearing a smile break free from those who spoke to him of their flittering adoration. The faces of people who lingered at his side would hold little tells that they could never hide and spirits would sound louder… _cheerful_, if he could call it that.

However…

Those spirits can be so detrimental sometimes. Mohan had grown accustomed to listening to their stories that, in his mind, led him to believe them as friends over foe. From the years that they festered, they’ve brought him no harm—only memories of the dead and talents of the most skilled. He deserved it, is what they said. Someone needed to take on their talents and bring them to a fruition either horrifying or vast. Damien hated it. Told him they’d trick him into something dangerous one day.

They were damn well close enough.

Thigh deep in the gentle trickle of a river, right as the moon loomed high above in all its full glory, he could remember how silent it was that night. Not a chirp of distant crickets nor the babble of the water trickling against stone. Mohan stood there with his stomach in knots. Towered before him stood a paladin free of his armor, inching slowly through the water.

A confession brought that moment, one filled with doubt and fear as his heart poured into the river around him. It was supposed to fall on deaf ears… And yet…

Damien stepped forward and Mohan pushed back, the water sloshing around them, acting as a barrier of space. He remembers feeling the ripples waiver at his thighs, the water so warm and night so calm. Among the silent whispers that lie within his magic, his heart ebbed with that ache of what he believed was betrayal. But who could he blame? The Saint-Protector could have ignored it, yes, but instead to do otherwise. He stepped up, came closer, only to be pushed away due to the cowardice within the Oracle’s heart.

Three years…

Three years and he still thinks about that moment.

It’s odd, honestly. Mohan, a mischievous one at heart, however, afraid of his own emotions. It’s what hides that fear. Being able to combine it with his inquisitive nature simply gave the sight that he was innocent—_sheltered._ Some nobles, despite how they felt of him, saw a jester. One with a smile so broad and kind, that no one could see the anguish that lie behind it.

_Take a breath, Mohan._

_In…_

_Out…_

Privacy is non-existent within the royal library. Big double doors that lead inward. Bookcases and shelves sat overstocked from floor to ceiling and paintings filled the spaces windows couldn’t take. A handful of tables sat scattered around the room, keeping the open space feeling full when there was only a small group of a couple tutors and estate guests sitting about, loudly chatting with one another. A social area, it was, mostly for those who didn’t want to place themselves around those “_beneath_” them and small, more confidential meetings.

Around the room stands groups of curious onlookers. Some were maids that found themselves normally within the confines of the library for gossip. Others looked to be apart of the Prince’s party. They stood around him like angels protecting their godly painting of a man. All of them adorned in white frock coats and red scarves tightly wrapped around their necks like thick ascots tucked into the breast of their coats, all of those scarves holding dimly sparkling yellow crest of the Tottlemill family. His people looked to be so painted—their lips red and pink, but their make-up padded and messily blended to hide their imperfections. But all of them beautiful and fabricated.

Aside from the Prince’s men that lingered with them stood four souls in black. One was a woman with a short side cut, her silver breastplate sparkling from the light, wrapped in baby blue sashes that tied her cape to her shoulders. The other was a larger man whom stood away from them with his back turned with flickering fingers that danced at the chin of a blushing woman. Another stood further from them, wandering through the shelves of books, their face covered by a blank mask adorned with an engraved sigil at the forehead. Then the tallest dressed in white sashes tied at his waist and chest, adorned in a uniform vastly different than the others. Out of the three, he stayed focused on Oracle, mismatched eyes trying to catch that passing gaze.

Nevertheless, today _does _bring a Prince. He sits on the edge of one of the sturdy oak tables as the center of attention, glowing in his goldenrod surcoat, slightly stained hose, and scuffed black loafers that barely scrape the floor. He holds a smile, wide and toothy, as he speaks to those who greet him. But every little move he makes brings a bounce to his curly blonde hair that tangled around his silver crown of thorns and leaves. However, his attention is raptured at the opposite side of the room. The Prince leans forward, gripping the edge of the old table, kicking his feet like a child struggling to climb down and gives sight to another smile.

“Don’t know you,” his voice is a lot deeper than Mohan expected. Once he’s on his feet, the sight of his crown slides back as he cranes his head upward, “Why do you look like that?”

Mohan squints, “I’m sorry?”

“You’re scarred like a warrior, but you don’t dress like one. You look like a possessed beast! Demons are very common in your land, is that what you are?”

“Do you really think there would be a demon in the estate?”

“So, _what are you?_”

A thinner man crooks himself over the shoulder of the Prince, “Ser, you must not speak to the—”

“No, no. He has a mouth. He can speak on his own. So please—_what _are **_you_**?”

Mohan straightens himself, flashes a forced smile, and responds, “A cloud of exhaustion, honestly. Thanks for asking. Not many people ask.”

The blond frowned, “I don’t take sarcasm for conversation.”

“That’s unfortunate. But please, we can speak properly another time when I’m not here for business.”

He’s red now; chest puffed and shoulders squared, “We can chat now. An order will be placed. Whoever it is can wait.”

There’s a roll to the Oracle’s eyes as he side steps around the Prince, “With that in mind, you definitely can wait.”

Prince Bartholomew Reginald Totlemill IV was a boisterous brat of a prince. He was an only child to rumored incestual parents and spoiled worse than curdled milk. He was known for _nothing._ He had never fought in a war. He had never settled unfortunate avoidable battles. Nor had his people ever seen the kindness he apparently spread to the upper class. Everything was to be given to him on a silver platter and no matter what—he was to be treated with _respect…_ even if he was the lowest tier of nobility in the room.

Which, unfortunately, led to one thing of note: Prince Bartholomew Reginald Totlemill IV, only child of King Bartholomew Totlemill III and Queen Bertha Winsor-Lüvin, was painfully well known for his temper tantrums…

“My Prince…” The skinny man is cut off with a raised hand.

“You will not speak to me with such a tone.”

“You’ll get over it.”

“How… How dare _you?_ I am Prince—”

“Shhh… A Prince must maintain social grace, your Highness.” Mohan hushes him with a finger to the lips, and even that seems to enrage the smaller man.

Conversations drop to a hush as attention is focused on the two of them, despite how calm and disinterested the Oracle had been. Though many of the onlookers had been members of the Prince’s posse, a small group of the rest stood as silent tutors and nosy visitors silently whispering to one another with soft laughter. It’s an interesting sight, the way that Prince pushes up to the taller man. Though Mohan, by no sort was _tall_, the Prince barely came to his chin.

“I will not take your rudeness.” He’s like an angry little peacock, that Prince is. His hair almost plumes as frustration grows, yet now, he steps back and holds his ring hand extended, cheeks glowing, “You will kneel and demand my forgiveness.”

Mohan snorts, “Your rudeness to a stranger means that they must demand _your_ forgiveness? I don’t think so.”

All those days of sitting up on late nights with Jolyon’s personal knights, enduring their harsh training and strict guidance, prepared him for this moment. It’d be seen as a success, of course… if Mohan had not seized the arm of the Prince. Bartholomew reached out with fury etched into his cherry red cheeks. There’s a yelp as Mohan yanks the Prince closer, that grip holding the shorter man close to him—almost chest to chest. There are slight hopes he hasn’t bruised the young man’s fragile skin… but nothing meant leaving his ego black and purple.

The Prince shifts with a wince, the sound of his long, gold necklaces jingling as he attempted to free himself from the unfazed Oracle. Onlookers stand off to the side with mouths agape, some with their fingers covering their shock. No, they seemed to be _his_ people who were shocked. Those of the estate knew better. Their King never held back his emotions. When he raged, they saw storms flatten homes. They saw fury that brought the Yu’lut free with ruby eyes and furious, sharpened maw—it was common.

To see it in their Oracle? The youngest, no less—was odd, yes, but unsurprising.

“On _my_ land, in _my _country,” At the pierced ear of the Prince, Mohan leans close, breath warm against skin, “you will **_earn_** your respect as everyone else does. No one here will bend knee to you because you demand it… It will not happen here.”

“R-release me! Let me go or I will make you—_GUARD!_”

He tuts the prince, his free hand combing the blond curls free from the painted face of his other “No, no, no. This is between you and I because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

Bartholomew’s breath hitches as he feels those skinny blackened fingers skirt the skin of his cheek but is taken off guard when that hand now clutches the cloth of his collar. Nevertheless, he’s still far too close to the Oracle, now forcibly pulled up to the balls of his feet, staring into the emptiness of the Oracle’s eyes, but what does he truly feel? It’s a cold chill that rattles down one’s spine and brings goosebumps up their skin. But this close? A man like Mohan could see all those little flaws within the Prince. His skin was caked with makeup and powder to the point that even this close, his perfume couldn’t obscure the stench that covered his clothing. Death is a powerful hidden gem of a smell. It can be dimmed away by fancy lotions and a good bath, but the more one stains their hands, the worse it gets and on the Prince? He _reeked _of decaying flesh and old iron. Though old, it was still there, lurking all over…

And so, he dips lower now, a little _too_ close now, “We can be friends, my Prince, you must understand this.”

_“Lord Oracle…”_ There’s a woman’s voice now—one familiar, but not the one to pull him away.

“But I do know what you’ve done, Prince. I can smell it on you…”

“**_Mohan._**”

That pungent smell still tickles at the back of his throat. It’s strong this close to him. It’s an unknown smell to most, but one specific to trained noses and necromancers. Blood stained this man’s clothes, his hair, his skin… but it sat as multiple, not simply a few that ended up with a gory demise. The smell that radiated from this man made it seem as if he was the executioner of hundreds, but not a single angry soul followed behind him.

For those who watch on, they don’t quite see that small look up. It’s a stern voice that Mohan focuses on; one owned by the Commander he had come looking for beforehand. With a huff, pushes away from the prince with a pat to the man’s face. Yet with a small frown, Mohan gives a noise of annoyance, straightens his frock coat, and fluffs his hair without a care in the world, but a hundred thousand creeping curious thoughts.

“When you’re ready to speak with your God, I can be found anywhere or we can reconvene within the sanctuary. I always have an open ear and a no judgment policy.” His gaze never pulls away from the prince as a hand lazily lifts towards the man in the white sash—the _Commander_, “I heavily encourage it. To me, my Protector.”

“Of course, my Oracle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you know you can read the short stories to this on my other account? I posted them a while ago to see how I felt about posting it there. so click here -> [boom.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18840178)
> 
> edit: i split this chapter into 2 parts because i felt it was super long but my god THE NEXT PART IS STILL SUPER LONG.
> 
> edit 2 - 3/8/20: remember when i said i hated this chapter and i wanted to rework it? yeah. here we are.


	9. Oathbreaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i split this chapter in half and my god. MY GOD. have a chonk of a chapter.
> 
> i have to come back and revisit this chapter someday.
> 
> edit - 3/13/20: i eventually came back. lol

Does he take comfort in this silence? Not entirely. Mohan had left Blackwood quietly with a cold shoulder. Though they held no argument, the feeling of his emotions colliding at once—_fear, hurt, love, betrayal—_he simply held no understanding of how to put it all into words. At the time, they were fresh to him. They were emotions that trickled in every so often in such tiny increments that they came to him ignored and waved off as if it were an odd bug.

Can he do it now? There’s hope within his despair.

Where does he start? How does one admit to something he attempted to avoid for so long? How do people muster up the courage to expose themselves to him daily? Morning, noon, and night, they come flocking, some with tears burning in their eyes while the rest remain strong, head held high to the point that Mohan often thinks of them as a touch of inspiration. If they could do it, he could finally do it himself.

His heart skips a beat. Mohan could feel his body breaking. Cold fear shot up his legs and brought his stride to a slow, agonizing trudge through mental muck. Yet, he couldn’t understand _why._ Damien was his eldest friend—his _only _friend. He was the only other person his heart could truly trust—the only man that could bring an honest, happy smile that’d make his cheeks hurt. And it was interesting.

Beside him stands the man he had rightfully fallen in love with… and he was afraid of him. Afraid in the sense that he’d be nothing but a disappointment. Afraid that he’d be the one who couldn’t live up to being the perfect lover… Afraid that he’d simply be rejected.

But he had to try.

As lips parted, he watched as Damien lifted a hand. The few members of his crew came to a quiet halt. He turns to them, fingers now scratching at his thickening beard and nose wrinkled. “We’ve had a long day. Let’s meet for dinner.”

“No reprimanding the bully?” The woman, Ela, spoke, “You gonna let Mohan get away with that?”

Damien frowns, “Now why would I do that? You didn’t reprimand Avon on the ride here.”

Mohan glanced back and the masked figure shrugged. “The brat kept trying to shove his fingers under my mask, so I bit him. You were kinder than I, cousin.” Their accent is thick and muddied behind that mask, but never hard to understand. But at least Mohan knew he wasn’t the only one who didn’t quite like that child of a Prince.

“See, no reprimanding. But now? Relaxation. Now go. Get out of my face.” As he shoos away his team with a flick of his hands, there’s a turn to the Oracle, one that feels like it freezes time in that hallway. Though Mohan’s head is full of rampant questions and frayed nerves, there’s still something that eases him about Damien.

He'll never quite figure out what it is.

Instead, he releases a sigh Mohan had not noticed was held so tightly in his lungs. Without the Knight’s team, he could pull the man away and try to speak up on the three year silence. It’s what he needed after all, and yet, the walk down the private corridors felt like a drag through sludge. What was he to say once they were properly away from the world? Could a half-assed apology actually succeed? He pauses. The large hallways into his personal quarters felt longer than usual and hands shaking and heart racing a mile a minute. He could do this. Mohan could channel the bravery he witnessed from exasperated souls…

He could… if he could find a moment to breathe…

“I know one simple apology means nothing, but I am deeply sorry for what happened back at Blackwood.”

He’s silenced for a moment, blinking slowly, “What?”

Damien took a breath, following Mohan closely into the quiet bed chamber, “I meant to send a letter… like I always do… but I felt I had broken your trust.” He licks his lips, leaning back on the now closed bedroom door, “I hate it when you let those ghosts get in your head. They make you paranoid of how others feel about you, when the only person you should care about is you…” The Paladin frowns and with a gentle whisper follows up with a, “No, that doesn’t sound right.” A struggle for words and a huff later, he finishes simply, “I couldn’t let you sit there and believe that I don’t care about _you._ You are my friend—always and forever.”

That’s how this all started. Mohan, sick and vulnerable, had been lured into the same conversation he openly tried to avoid. Spirits lurk in most of his magic. They whisper and plead when he’s surrounded by his own magic and often than not, they speak to him. Some tell him stories of their past with hopes that that would free them, while others keep him company, speaking just to do so. But they are powerful invisible little things. Many of them still hold old magic, manipulating their way through him to pose as something or someone else where, at times, it’s hard to separate spirit from folk.

Some hear them—the _whispers,_ that is. They hold no attempt to hide themselves from the people around him, nor do they care if they are ever understood in the languages they hold. To them, their conversations aren’t only for _him,_ but for anyone willing to listen. And that day, thigh deep in the rivers of Blackwood, someone else was willing.

“Why didn’t you let me believe it?”

Damien’s demeanor changes, those thick brows scrunching together and discolored eyes narrowing as he pushes himself from the door he leaned on, “Who do you think I am? Those spirits will be the death of you or your mind—I won’t allow that to happen.” He sighs again, those eyes of his softening, “That’s why I made this _my _job. You deserve more than just following behind someone else’s praise. Your mind is important, your skill even more. You deserve to be happy, Mohan… _You do…_ just not with them pulling you back down.”

It always comes back to that, doesn’t it? _Happiness._ The toils and woes of a depressing life within a consistently battle hungry environment does a lot to a man’s psyche. It dwindles it down into a translucent ball that eventually fills with bitter self-loathing and a damning invisible sadness ready to implode and drag that poor soul down into the depths of the abyss. It’s a weighty, little thing that quiet ball is. It is one that eventually builds itself into a ticking bomb that leads into one of two directions: a miserable life of exhausting depression or suicide… And Mohan knows the stories that lead to the worst and preach living a life of faux happiness… It doesn’t quite work… That faked joy…

Instead, he stands there, twiddling his thumbs with his head down and gaze down at his dirty boots. Forever, he’s blank on how to organize his emotions. He could show false happiness through skill alone, but, on the inside, he’s cornered like a frightened dog with its tail tucked between its legs with nowhere to go when confronted with the truth. It’s different. Odd. _Unwanted._

“Why do you care so much?”

Damien shrugs, “I had a lot of time to think. A lot of time to reflect on… shit we’ve done, things _I’ve _done… and I ruined a lot of it… _erased _a lot of it… Made the homesickness worse at times.”

That grants a curious head tilt from the Oracle. Had that moment left him looking down the mouth of a bottle? No… no. Damien was nothing like that. “What do you mean _erased_? What… what did you do?”

Homesickness is a problem among soldiers. When they enlist, they are told to bring something that reminds them of home. It’s an imperative thing to keep morale… And Mohan didn’t get that chance. He was swept up without second thought, dragged behind the Eastern King without any true rhyme or reason. Unlike the others, he held no possessions other than the clothes on his back that he no longer fit and a necklace gifted by his Protector. It was different for him. Every so often he’d be out of Crystalheim for a short time, but nothing like this…

But he had Damien. He _always _had Damien.

He was the gentle cure of his thriving loneliness. He’d show up when Mohan needed him most, lying across his bed, enjoying the silence between them. They’d talk, of course. Most times it was Damien’s methods of teaching him to read and write with children’s books and an old journal they used for letters and lessons. But this brought him comfort with every little visit… and brought him sadness when he thought he had lost it all.

And Damien sighs, “Where do I even start?”

Twenty years and the only thing that truly separated them were a few months. Mohan had spent years at the side of his Protector, watching him stare at soldiers with stars in his eyes then fight through the ranks of the Imperial Military with the disadvantage of being Astani. Did he care? Never. He spoke with excitement despite it all. He’d come home with stories to share and a smile so broad… Yet there is pain replacing that sharp smile of his.

All Mohan had done was prepare to be let down. He had steeled himself for heartache that he assumed would be what makes or breaks his end mission but was greeted with a confession. One filled teeming loud with a quiet pain that brought his hands to the scruffy cheeks of his Saint-Protector. He wasn’t prepared for this… He had no idea how to even start handling _this._

“What’s the easy answer?”

“I no longer wish to be a Paladin…” Perhaps Mohan was a touch too loud with his facial reaction. Damien holds up his hands in protest, “That’s not the worst part.”

“That’s just _part_ of the worst part? That sounds like good news to me.”

“But not for me.” He’s quiet for a moment, chewing at the corner of his bottom lip, “If I leave, I’d no longer be your Protector.”

“Says who?”

“It is a paladin’s job to ensure your safety and well-being—”

“I didn’t ask for a job description, Damien. _Who?_”

As honest as he is, he usually never looks away. It was something ingrained into his training. He had to meet the gazes of everyone, no matter how he viewed them… but those mixed eyes focused down on the floor? There was something else to this he wasn’t ready to come to terms with. With a sigh, his hands are at his hips, that gold-blue gaze staring down at his friend. “High-Elder Dumarch. Two sets of re-education and I’m on watch permanently. They don’t trust that I’d make any rational decisions while impaired.”

Mohan squints for a moment, “That… doesn’t sound good… Wh-what is re-education?”

“It isn’t. There was something in my head complicating things… hindering my ability to focus properly that I had undergone it twice to perfect myself for you.”

“But what does it _do?_”

Damien’s brows lower for a moment. “Too much? I can’t remember all of it… Something about erasing transgressions from your mind to be cleansed again, but I felt like… I was being taken away. I was losing who I was.” The Paladin groans, anxiously shifting his weight to and fro as he searched for the right words to say. “You have done so much for me that I wanted to do the same in return. You gave me a life I had lost… Let me use it to protect you. Properly this time. With no interference, no second unwanted voices.”

Mohan’s at a silence that leaves him breathless. His mouth sits dry and his heart thumps erratically as if it were eventually going to pop free from his chest. He prepared for the worst. He told himself that Damien never cared about _him…_ but now things make sense. He overreacted.

Simply because he didn’t understand.

“Why did you do it?”

“I… don’t remember the initial thought. Something told me I was overstepping my boundaries. I had allowed myself to slip. That alone tainted my position.”

“What don’t you remember?”

He pauses, “I’m beginning to forget my mother’s face, and I know I saw her before we split the first time. So, that alone was one factor. And then…” As he walks about the room, the sound of his weapons clicked against one another. It almost came deafening within the brief silence. “Then… I don’t remember what we did in Elin. I remember… the celebration in the brothel… then waking up with you beside me like it was a dream… and that’s it. And I focus on that more than I should.”

Oath’s are a horrible thing to follow, aren’t they? A poor paladin just as lost as his friend is, but neither of them can truly connect the dots. In Elin, there was no stopping soldiers from breaking their oaths for just a night, trying their hand at a good time, for this was a brothel district down in the occupied depths of Vittahimer. There were no sworn promises here. There were barely any laws. But soldiers were never turned down—instead they were embraced and respected, despite stories of how prostitutes usually were. But most only came to celebrate something blindly with as much ale as they could pour into their gullets proudly.

Nevertheless, Mohan remembers Elin… he remembers it vividly. A sweaty night that ended with him mentally swimming more than the mead that left him stumbling back to their shared room… and Damien no longer remembered that.

_Huh._

“What are you saying?”

His cheeks are glowing now, deepening the brown of his cheeks with an embarrassment he seemed to dodge. Nevertheless, he clears his throat, “I willingly signed up to guide the Prince here to see you. I spoke with Jolyon all morning yesterday trying to figure out what I could do to fix this… and do you know what he told me?”

“What?”

“Same shit you keep telling me— leave the Bloods. But also, to confess. Not in the sense of trying to absolve myself, no, but… to tell you...” He’s quiet again, eyes closed for a moment to figure out the next set of words to say. However, nothing ever comes… Except a deep bow. One that grasps the hands of the Oracle and brings his hands close. As he lifts, Mohan can feel a simple set of kisses placed atop his hands. “Point is,” his words come a bit muffled against his friend’s knuckles, “if _I _want to be happy… I have to lose everything to gain something… and I’m not upset about that choice.”

“That’s very stupid of you…”

“Wow.”

“It is. Why drop what you love for something else when you can simply… keep it? You’re going to let the Blood Paladins really ruin your happiness like that? I said it when you joined them, I’ll say it again: they are fucking _vultures._” He’s at the point of almost jabbing a finger into Damien’s chest as the other rises to full height, “Nothing says you can’t improve with being a paladin without having them drag you back down. Nothing says you can’t…” His lips scrunch and head shakes. What’s the word he’s looking for? “Nothing says you can’t _evolve_ your status. Nothing says you can’t leave **_them_** but don’t you dare leave **_me._**”

How hard is it to truly sway a Paladin to break their oath? How hard must one prod and guilt them to see the truth that paradise and power is in the eye of the beholder? Damien doesn’t need them as much as Mohan _needs_ him. No one else seems to be able to keep him in check as he can… then again, back to simplistic terms, Mohan can’t trust anyone else as best as he could Damien.

And with his hands shaking, the Oracle stands his ground and takes a breath. The thought of his adventure to come had disappeared into the depths of his mind. Here, there was no Jolyon with high praise or eavesdropping ex-Princess trying to get dirt on an innocent man. Here, right now, stands two friends just trying to understand one another.

_Mother above, this confidence thing is draining…_

“I thought that with all this re-work with the Blood Paladins that this is the protector you would have wanted because that’s what the High Elders told me.” Damien says, now wrapping his arms around his shorter friend, “I can’t tell you why I never thought about asking you.”

Mohan glanced up briefly, the sight of Damien only being the shadows of his scruff, “You’re fucking idiot.” His words are muffled against the fabric of the Paladin’s uniform, but he knows he heard him, “They spent months trying to get me to pretend you weren’t worth my time. You think they care about anything **_I_** have to say?” There is courage in his veins now. As if time stood still, he could feel the world slow down into a sluggish halt. Mohan pushes away briefly simply to pull down the taller paladin by his cheeks. “Think about it,” he starts, nails scratching at the soft tufts of Damien’s beard, “where would you rather be?”

“You’re right… you’re right… you’re right. _Shit._” Damien tells his crew that a friend is never supposed to be your therapist. They can never be there for you. However, they are the one who’s loyalty is unwavering no matter what the situation is. The one person who’ll stand at your side when the world crumbles at your feet. “One step at a time… but I will stay here at your side.” He then clears his throat. Steps back: “I didn’t mean to make this about me. You must have wanted to talk about something, huh?”

Back to square one, huh? Yes, Mohan wanted to _see_ Damien. Wanted to pour a chunk of his soul onto the wooden floor at their feet, but was there really more? Of course. There’s always something hiding away in the background when things fall through. His heart wanted to be pushed away, but acceptance came. Then his mind wanted to keep an old friendship strong. Yet there was more to it, questions and requests that lurk in the distance with hopes that the paladin did not see him as mad for questioning it.

Taking a seat on his bed, his mouth opens. “Y-yeah. There was something I wanted to tell you. Face to face rather than poorly writing you a letter your team would read.”

“Once. It happened _once._”

“Either way, I, uh…” Mohan makes a face, his brows lowering and lips pursed. It wasn’t much of a grimace as much as it was a mixture of confusion and mild distress. “It’s… a little bit too much information.”

“So, you’re gonna tell me or what?”

“Just making sure you’re okay with it.”

“What could you possibly tell me that could shock me?” Damien squints, “Are you fawning over someone?”

**_Yes. _**“No?”

“Then spit it out.”’

There’s that face again, now with the anxious lip biting to follow. Mohan’s dim silver gaze lingered away from him for a moment, shining that sight of apprehensiveness loudly. After a while, his shoulders slump and he pats the side next to him as he released a noise of exhaustion, “While you were gone, I decided to befriend Chief Tsun’s daughter while I was home. Mind you this happened a while ago.”

“This doesn’t lead anywhere sexual does it?”

“No. No, I swear. Not towards her, at least...”

It almost goes over his head, that last part does. Damien's brows lower and stares down the Oracle confused, but piqued. "..._At least?"_

"Yeah." He’s turned towards him now, a leg now pulled onto the bed, "She dragged me down to the Pits with her. It was a sight, Damien. The roar of the crowd was... _illuminating._ I felt alive down there."

"And how did that go?"

"I could feel my body tingle when I fought the champions that I craved more. So, I climbed that ladder and I chased that thrill... Do… you get like this? When you’re in battle, that is?" How do you talk about your "feelings"...? If talking about the arousal that stemmed from danger meant "feelings."

"What do you mean? Fights get exciting, yet, but I don’t purposely go hunting for it."

“Why not?”

“Because that is—”

“Don’t say ‘a sin’…”

“Point is, I’ve never chased it.”

Mohan 's back to biting his lip again, "There's a chest of gold and trinkets in the back of the closet at home. It… **_excited_** me, Damien... It lit something inside of me that craved more than just the thrill of it... It fueled more than that... but, at the time, I didn't know how to... handle it... If you catch my drift."

The Paladin's cheeks are warm. He understood now. "I don't think you should be telling me about this."

"You're the only one I can tell."

"Why?"

"Because you could help me?" One must be blunt with a man who only known the flirtatious batting lashes of an older woman... and could barely read that.

"I... Don't think I could do that either."

And a whiff. “Don’t let those paladins tell you who you can lay with and who you can’t.”

He shrugs, “A good Paladin never takes that step pre-marriage.”

_You have…_ But Mohan squints, “So, I have some inkling of a chance…?” Pass it off as a joke and it takes away some of the unrest in his stomach. Yet, joke about it enough, and hopefully he’ll get the hint… be it a terrible attempt at one, nonetheless. “Anyway,” he speaks again, “I hate keeping secrets from you. Jolyon found out about the fights and that’s why he drug me here—to make sure I got better at it. I just… don’t want to go about it alone.”

“You want me here while you train,” asked Damien.

“Not entirely,” Mohan replies. “I just... _prefer_ it if you were the one urging me to go on.”

“And I would... But why do you want to take this training? It’s… horrible.”

Damien may jest, but the blank expression stitched across Mohan’s feature tell another tale. “I hate all of this,” he finally speaks, “I don’t want to stand behind a pulpit lying to these people that their lives will get better in the midst of a war. I’m tired of faking this façade. I want to be _out there_, but I know I can’t. You know me better than this… I can’t keep pretending.”

They talk about happiness as if it’s only _one_ thing. Happiness stems from what you can make of the things around you. A garden, animals, smithing, alchemy—it could be anything, but for Mohan, it wasn’t this. There was no joy in within the walls of the sacellum. Confession hours sat stories of depression and faux love as if anyone would come to talk about them falling in love… They had to speak about the pain and woes of a poor crop or the fact that their child was still unwed.

Who could find joy in that?

Mohan groans into his hands, falling flat onto the bed. The more he dwells on the thought of it, his heart hurts. He hasn’t spoken of this to anyone yet. He gave an idea of it to Jolyon, but never trickled further into it. The courage to speak against how much he loathed the inside of each and every little church and shrine just made him resent it all more. But now, if all goes well, he has an escape.

It’s such a weird place to feel so lonely.

When he finally peeks through his fingers, he watches Damien make himself comfortable, “Keep talking. You’ll feel better in the end.”

There’s no snarky comeback. There’s no frustration against it. But he sits back up with an overexaggerated noise, “Do you think this is a poor idea?”

“For you to explore something new? Not at all… unless you’ll keep picking fights with different Princes.”

“That was an accident.”

“I feel like you’re going to _strike_ a royal next time.”

Mohan frowns, “Would that be a bad thing? Some of them deserve it.” Is he infatuated with the sight of this budding beard? Yes. He’s found his fingers strumming through the coarse hair with a feeling of comfort relaxing his joints. “What are you gonna do about the Blood problem?”

Damien is silent for far too long before he scoots forward to fill that familiar space. For the both of them, it’s more than comforting. This sits years of sharing one bed since they were boys, to finding it much too common as adults. It was natural to them. Peaceful and welcoming. “I can always just… resign.”

“Is it that easy?”

“You know it’s not.” He leans forward with elbows rested on his legs and head propped on his fists, “I’m going to have to… do something. Come up with _something._”

The Oracle’s brows raise as he straightens ups, “I have an idea. The Oath you took isn’t worth the paper it’s not written on. Therefore, by _my_ decree--”

“—_Your_ decree?”

“Yes, **_my_** decree that **you** should take the oath of… conquest? No, you aren’t the type to hunt for glory in battle. The Crown maybe? No… you don’t even like serving royals… Devotion?”

Damien snorts, “You think I’m a cavalier? You think I’m good enough for one?”

“You’re good enough for me.”

“Nah.”

At Damien’s side sits Mohan on his knees, eyes gazing off at nothing, “Swear yourself to me. Break your Oath if you can’t resign from your title.”

“Do you know the repercussions of an Oath breaker?”

“Are you going to let that stop you?” There’s an obvious drop in his voice, that change that gives Damien goosebumps. He doesn’t have to see that hardened look glaze over gentle features to know Mohan was serious. He doesn’t move. He still sits there, staring blankly at the back wall. “They want a fight? Teach them why you earned that rank to begin with. You’re the Protector I chose for a reason… and it wasn’t because you mean something to me.”

“Oh?”

“Every last one of those soldiers they put at my side could never…” What’s the word? He clasps his hands together, “_bond_ with me like you could. Their mages were garbage. Their soldiers were too immersed with pushing me back rather than fighting alongside me. And don’t… _don’t_ get me started on those aggravating, elitist, shitwit wizards.” He glances down to catch Damien’s passing glance, “Versailé proves that they’ll never amount to what you and I can do together or alone. With that said, I lead by your mentality—_no fear._ Do it and get it over with and you’ll be free.” If he could see the redness in Mohan’s eyes, he’d know every word almost sat trembling as it wobbled on that thin line of breaking into nervous tears. “You take your step into making your decision and I’ll do mine.”

Mohan’s crawling free from the bed now and slaps a hand across Damien’s knee. He’s shaking. His hands felt like they were vibrating and his heart felt like it was trying to escape. He has to learn how to relax in tense situations, does he not? Why not use this moment to try his hand with him? He can do this.

“Get up and take a knee,” Mohan speaks again.

“You’re serious about this?”

“Get up.”

A groan and a grunt and Damien has made his way to the floor. Placing his hands at bended knee, he glances up to meet Mohan’s uneasy stare. With his ring hand extended, he waits for Damien to accept. The Commander’s fingers are rough, but warm, as he rubs his thumb across the other man’s knuckles.

“What am I to say,” Damien asks.

“_Your _oath.” Mohan replies, “Swear your devotion to me.”

He’s so traditional, that Paladin is. Without a second word, he drops his head then brings Mohan’s hand to his forehead, yet he’s quiet for just a moment. “I lay my words at your feet, O’ Oracle of mine, for your life is mine and my breath is yours. I kneel before you as proof of my steadfast loyalty, my courage, my honesty… my love for you and only **_you._** Though I am duty bound as a Protector for our land, people, and country, let my Goddess know… No—… Let my Oracle know that no matter what I will fight for you harder than any other to my final breath.”

And with that, he places a kiss upon each ring then one at the top of his hand. He hums once Mohan’s hand is pulled away and run against his hair. His heart is still racing, but now, things are slowly moving forward.

Because that’s how it’s done right? You grit your teeth and ball your fists and prepare for a battle that will most likely drag your half beaten corpse into the mud. But you lead with what you know best and theirs just happens to be “**_no fear._**” That’s all Mohan needed. Hell, that’s all the _both_ of them needed. If they could push back an intruding fleet, alone, with no fear in his heart, and determination fueling his actions, he could do it. He could tackle the quest given by Jolyon and Damien could tear away the Oath he hated.

They could do this with their nerves shot… but it just takes determination, an oath, and no fear.


	10. Black Gods

There’s a difference between silence and _silence._ There’s the silence of being alone. The world speaks in soft whispers through the rustling of trees and babbling brooks where the voice of the living greets the dead. It brings comfort that lingers within that gentle, accepting quiet. And then there is _silence._ That deafening noise that leaves you paranoid to the sound of nothing. No one is here. No one is breathing. The life here is stale and dead. It leaves you uneasy… _paranoid._

** _Empty._ **

How did he get here? Where even is _here?_ The forests of Barrowlea are different no matter where you go, of course. With time, they become familiar. The paths are worn into the dirt. Trees hold homes to birds and druids that watch from above with curious interest. The animals trot through mindlessly in seek of food or soft adventure. Yet with that in mind, from the time he spent wandering aimlessly through Dómrien’s lands, this was different. Dómrien’s forests were dense for a multitude of reasons. Spies and assassins were trained to move through the thickness of the canopy with ease without being seen and rangers were always close to the ground, always watching silently not even a few feet away.

But this was different.

The grass is dying here. Patches of it sit familiar to him with patches of dark puddles of black ichor that seemed to dance like smoke across the open fields, twisting itself around decaying trees. As he continued through, each step seemed to flourish beneath his feet; flowers blooming, grass lifting towards an unseen sun healthy and green before withering away once again. Magic, it had to be. One, unstable and pouring free from the plants around them in a sickly flicker that left a cold chill down his spine.

Nothing about this was right. There’s too much death here.

The world, here, is lost in trying to reform itself, clawing to a life it struggles to grasp as it sprouts color only temporary. However, Mohan had seen this before, just a handful of years prior. He watched as his own magic tore through old forests, scorching ancient stone and leaving the land to rot. Then again, something was here, beckoning him, luring him with a whisper further into the depths of this old, dark forest, speaking in a language he could barely understand.

_D’a neit, Voi-staa_.

** _Come to me. Come to me, my little star._ **

When they speak to him, none of them address him by name nor do they give him a nickname—the spirts, that is. They make noises to catch his attention or simply begin talking until he finally focuses on them. They didn’t care for names outside of their own, to most of them, he was simply another vessel, another one stuck with them until he decided to cast them out… if he knew _how_, of course.

Yet, amongst the voices, this one sat clear, as if it had been pressed up against his ear. Then again, _clear_ was subjective. The voice came distorted, overlapping in different pitches and languages that lingered in echoes.

** _This way. Come._ **

There’s someone else here in this dying forest, he swears on it. Though dark, he could see something glinting before him, then a streak of fire-y blue lighting up a path to him before, like a massive mane that faded into dark once again. Is it a terrible idea to follow? Perhaps. But he’s still turned around in these tight trees.

His feet know where they are headed, but his mind is still scattered. In his heart, there’s hope that he’s followed the path that held that shimmer of light, yet he’s still unsure. There is something about these lands that simply sit questionable to him. No matter where you go in Barrowlea, magic lurks in the air. Even the weak can feel it’s old power like an electrical current raising the hairs on their arms, but here sits paranoia. The fear that something lurks within these old magical trees… like something is watching… _waiting._ **_Enchanting_** him long enough to leave him vulnerable to the chilling breeze.

There’s a building here. One statuesque and old as dead brown vines twisted up the pillars of what used to be white marble, but clearly hold the color of age and dirt. Plants lay overgrown, some sprouting through the stairs and the floor that greet it as he eases his way up. There’s a chill at his ankles, one far too cold to be a simple breeze. Yet he looks and stands awestruck.

It reminds him of stardust, bright and illuminating in glittering plumes of pinks and white, as it trickles free from the mouth of the entrance and down the cracked, noir stairs. Within the room sat life striving, entwined within one another, branches of trees and vines tangled around old roots as they led into what only felt like an old throne room. No… that’s what it was—wasn’t it?

Deeper into the vast room, the bright sight of the clouds at his ankles darken with the dying earth. The trees droop and branches lay empty, no flowers give color on destroyed land, nor does any sunlight cast through the caved ceilings… But there is the moon. Red and angry in its empty sky, peering through the massive hole with a light dim around a glow so bright before a shattered throne that held a husk of something massive, pulsing through the sparkling black in a color he couldn’t explain.

Before him stands a warrior. Silver armor so lavished it almost seemed artificial. At one shoulder lie a cape, black and glittered with gold, while in the other hand holds a sword, sheathed and held down at their side. However, what caught his attention most was the mane of blue plume that flowed down their back from the helm that shielded them from the world.

“The Stars don’t know you like I do,” speaks the voice from earlier, the others still echoing in various languages. “You are the radiance I’ve longed for that others simply couldn’t find.”

It takes him a moment, “Who are you?”

Sword casted to the floor, the warrior removes their helmet with a gentle noise before throwing that to the floor as well, the sparkle of the plume spreading like smoke at armored feet. He sees nothing for a while beneath curls of falling clouds. Faces appear then disappear, distorting between male and female, all unknown to him, before settling on one—a woman. Brown skin, a strong jaw, a deep burn scar at her cheek.

But eyes blacker than the night itself.

“Everything and everyone,” she says.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“But it does, my little star, for I am fear and courage. War and sacrifice. The stars above…” and her voice falls to a deadly whisper, all those voices mixing in sending a shiver down his spine, “I am the Black.”

Mohan’s left with a stutter. Years of feeling empty from the lack of guidance left him hollow. Instead he laughs. “Of course, you are.”

“You do not have to believe me, _ne_ _aajilyn’staa_. I came hunting for my own blood. My Chevalier have been turned down by our kin that I had to do this myself.”

“And?”

“All so far have turned me down. Unfortunate, yes, yet I come seeking the little things hidden within my kin. It’s so _loud,_ within you, that hunger for strength. It’s… alluring—**_dominant._** Therefore, I wish to give you that power with no fear of what you’d do with it.”

“What do you have planned?”

The warrior smiles and steps forward, “When we face the final death, our souls never die. We can be reborn as we are now or pass what strength we have left to others deserving. Your heart crystalizes and your bones become obsidian—your power cannot be touched then.” She holds up her hand and the light that shines from her palm is almost blinding, but he knows… It’s a heart in her hand, one that glistens with that same shine that flashed from the mass behind her. “My heart is yours to do as you please, but that is not what you seek, my star. The grimoire you quest for belongs to me and inside, it sits hollowed and within lay bits of me. It is not meant for the damned or the weak. Therefore, you must _consume knowledge._”

“Are you… hinting at me… _eating_ your flesh?”

She flashes another smile as she shadows over the young Oracle, but he can feel it anchoring down on him, holding him in place with the feeling of something wet wrapping around his legs, sliding up the loose fabric of his sleeves to grip his arms in the sharp, prickly grip of damp weight.

“Not flesh, my Voi’staa.” The warrior towers him now, but Mohan’s focused on the tendrils lurking past her. Some lay idle, creeping in the dark behind while others crept over her shoulders and wrapped around him tightly, pressed painfully against his skin like needles at the ready. “We don’t want the damned to take what is ours. Keep that in mind when you find me. It is a power that will allow you to smite the evil that lurks nearby as well.”

He groans from that uncomfortable pinch, “Evil?”

“Yes. It is a creature that strives in gold and wealth it never earned, but its purpose is one I cannot fathom. Why? It must be eradicated.”

Mohan’s head is craned up to face her uncomfortably. Within the scars on her face, he could see highlights of gold outlining her old wounds and in her eyes twinkle little galaxies. Beautiful, yes, but there’s nothing about her that screams “innocent.” Not with the aura of death that stinks from her or the mound of black that lurks on the throne, unmoving… _watching._

“What do I do?”

“That’s up to you.” The way she moves around him reminds him of a hungry wolf, watching its prey struggle for freedom. “The creature slumbers nearby… but what it is…? A surprise for you.”

Death is fascinating at times, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s slow and other times it comes suddenly. It’s quiet or loud. Messy or clean… Yet, when it happens to you, one must anticipate what comes. For Mohan, he could only brace for the incoming pain of it. It stings at first. Then a burn comes and his nerves are set ablaze with an angry fire that shoots through his body. He can taste iron in his mouth and feel a shake through his limbs. This wasn’t like any other death he had ever felt before. This felt like a million knives carving away at him internally.

“Remember your goal for me. Find me, my Champion, and you’ll understand. All you have to do is _devour me._”

It became tougher to breathe and harder to see her. Yet, through the blur of his eyesight, among her dark skin, he could see what couldn’t have been eyes, opening on her skin, all glowing with an ethereal sight of gold, white pupils focused on him. His body fell limp in that odd wet grip of her. Blackness came, a word of wisdom following suit:

_Have my blessings... and kill that fiend._

Then silence.

As last a gasp comes, one scraping for any ounce of oxygen, fingers clawing at his throat in panic. Mohan’s skin is _burning_. Is it a fever or does it come from the panic? Either way, he’s unsure, but awake, back in his bed, in an empty room.

Nothing came to him clearly. A dream can be interpreted as anything, but _that one?_ It felt too specific. Was she really who she claimed to be or just the spirit of an Oracle? It didn’t make sense. All those stories of God’s beckoning their chosen to join their side was a simple fairy tale… wasn’t it? It’s all a dream. A story. Fiction made to soothe others…

_That wasn’t her…**was it?**_

Mohan sits up with a shake in his core and his mind in a dizzy fog. “Kill the fiend.” What exactly would that prove? Then again, she mentioned the grimoire. Jolyon had joked that it was cursed, but if she’s right—_that book isn’t meant for the weak._ But what was the creature she spoke of? So far, no one had been suspicious throughout the royal estate… but then… Then there was the thick smell of rot that came from the Prince. The smell sat heavy in his gut for hours that he never quite thought about it again. Everyone has their hobbies, albeit morbid or healthy—he assumed the worse.

It's still dark out. Most of the estate has concluded their nightly regiment and many others still patrol the halls. He could storm into Jolyon’s room and speak up on it… but the speculation is based on a dream. He could wake up Damien, but would he believe him? Would he even wake up long enough to hear him out? Waking the Paladin once he made it back to a familiar bed after weeks of sleeping in wagons or on the ground was another feat in itself. Mohan found himself in a corner. He could walk out that door and snatch that blond out of his shiny new shoes and see what he could pull out of him or he could continue with the mission. Go in. Get the book. Get the weapons. _Taste knowledge?_

Yes.

That’s what he’ll do.

Book first. Then the Prince. Hopefully by then, nothing else will worsen… but that’s a thought with fingers crossed.


	11. The Smell of Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey.  
there's a handy glossary at the end.

And thus, he stands— blankly, exhausted, _disconnected._ The world ‘round him felt amiss, the little things leaving him skeptical of its gentle simplicities with thoughts of woe and confusion. However, that’s what dreams do, don’t they? They weave little insecurities into your mind or make the ones known even more present. It strikes a cold fear into the minds of the strong, leaving them to wonder where they went wrong and how it could have been avoided.

But this couldn’t have been avoided… could it?

“Such is life as an Oracle,” would be said, but it’s not the life of an ordinary, no-named famer. Mohan was the youngest son out of seven children—why would anyone find excitement in such basic lifestyles? How could he even be chosen out of scholars, kings, monks, or warriors? There was no weight to his name. There were no stories to be shared and no songs to be sung of his glory. Mohan Ívarr was nothing, and to the wealthy and regal, he was even less.

So why _him?_

** _Because the others turned her down._ **

If she was a demon sent to play with his tired mind, he’ll accept his failure of allowing her to slip past, but… There’s just something off about it. Something _real_. Something that leaves her story open-ended, but truthful and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it…

And neither could Damien, for that matter.

_Ch_ _ā’ke Helysian, d_ _à vo m_ _ør koi bin ji brevante._

He had not been gone for long… or that’s what he had assumed. The room still sat dark from the looming storm clouds outside, but the silhouette of his friend stood haunting. The wood floor felt cold beneath his feet and a chill wrapped around bare arms. This was… different. That’s for sure. Just above the floor, the Oracle… _hovers._ Hovers? Just barely had his toes graced the floor and his arms sat limp at his side. But… he spoke… softly in hushed murmurs of what sounded like an old prayer.

There’s suppression in the air. His magic felt depleted… _useless…_ but **_alive_** and **beckoning_._** With every step closer to Mohan, Damien could feel something thriving in him, demanding to be seen by someone who could understand.

_Lei ji veyr et vo ji vai._

He’s uncomfortable, that paladin is. There is something here. Smothering him… and it’s _not_ Mohan. And yet, he squints. No matter what weird curiosity the Oracle had found himself immersed within, Damien expected danger. To him, it was a given. A man who’s natural attraction leads him to the rancid corpses to see what could build from it doesn’t shock him when the room ebbs with the black magic that creeps beneath his feet.

** _But what the fuck is this?_ **

His muttering is louder now. Damien can hear that prayer that calls for strength—_his_ strength. It’s an old one he learned long ago to deliver what power an Oracle has to their most trusted. A “spell of protection,” so to speak, to grant their soul ever growing vitality as their minds and souls meld into one. Older paladins claim it’s a saying of comfort and good fortune, but… with this? Is it?

_T_ _āt veyr konin a’sh_ _āvin imo _ _øver du evahath maliond et veyr evliget ferdicom kell ahout du suino._

Damien’s close now. He can see the blackened raised veins creeping up the side of Mohan’s jaw, darkening the side of his face. There’s an unusual glow to his eyes. The dim silver of his eyes now the brightest thing seen in the dark, staring blankly at the ceiling, the man still muttering the same prayer.

But he stops.

Glowing eyes now hard focused on Damien. His hand now lifts, limply, like a puppet being guided, to reach the chest of his guard. _“D’a niet, Helysian. D’a niet.”_ He repeats it over and over, the back of his hand slowly falling yet caught by the calloused hands of his Protector.

This was the fear that lay in his gullet that the spirits that live in his magic would one day snatch away and leave him a husk of unstable dangerous magic festering away until its volatile nature craters half of the nation.

“I’m here. I’m here…” Damien speaks softly, his free hand cradling the back of Mohan’s head and the other gently wrapping around his waist. One day he’ll see his greatest fear come to light and he looses his best friend, but he’s still here. Mohan is there. Something deep in his gut is telling him that. Nevertheless, he wonders—what is it that leaves Mohan in such a trance? He drifts and that alone is often worrisome, but even to the smallest touches, he doesn’t respond.

And the silence doesn’t make it any better.

Mohan stares at him for a moment, his body fallowing into the familiar arms of his Knight, and blinks slowly. His breathing is shallowed and shuddering, almost as if he’s beginning to panic. He doesn’t seem to understand, and yet he’s leaping free of Damien’s arms and spinning around in the dissipating dark.

That glow is gone. There is fear there.

Damien’s hands are up, “Talk to me.”

To read an Oracle is to learn how to read a map. A good cartographer can decipher lines and dots on a map’s face and understand their terrain better than any other person in the world. For Damien, his position was the same. To understand an Oracle was to read his features, understand a timid body language that left so many so curious. Damien knew better than that when he knew the man before him was nothing innocent nor was he a decent liar. Behind those black eye’s hid emotion, he could see so vividly. He could still see the silver shimmer of his best friend’s pupils—dilated and horrified as if he had seen the devil.

And with truth, it’s not an expression he’s used to. Mohan and the horrors that lie in his sight stood hand in hand, but… what exactly could have brought a dream like that? The pain teetering between disbelief and faith perhaps? However, he could hear her whispering in the back of his head. Nothing uncommon, yes, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. He had found himself lost in the middle of the prairies back home and confused of where his feet had taken him—but this? For the both of them, it left a strange internal mixture of horror and confusion.

“Talk to me. I can’t help you when you’re quiet.”

“The… Prince…” Mohan’s frowns, “There’s something wrong with the Prince.”

Damien tilts his head, “You sure? You were just… floatin’ there.”

“What?”

“Okay, you don’t remember any of that—what… What about the Prince?”

The two of them have been like this for years. When Mohan did something ill-favored, Damien was there. The opposite was scant, yet Mohan was always smiling away behind him. There weren’t many times where Damien had ever caught himself stuck and in trouble since he became a paladin. Perhaps when they were children, yes, but never when they were older.

Yet, as he begins to open his mouth, tongue dry and words gone. “There’s something… _foul_ in the air… Like death.” It’s almost difficult to form words. Sentences come and go where most make no sense at all. “I smelled it on him last night, but I wasn’t sure. Now I am…”

“About what,” Damien questions, “Be detailed.”

It’s… fascinating how the sound of nothing is what puts Mohan on edge. He had gotten so accustomed to the faint voices of the dead whispering him stories of when they were young to grizzly war stories that left them bloodied and mutilated on the battlefield. Their stories, to him, were comforting. It left him relaxed and welcomed rather than stressed and alone. However, for once, there’s no one. Not a sound. Not a whisper. Not even a ghostly chuckle. It was enough to know something was up. Enough to know that a hunch could be followed.

The sound of his own voice in his head was throwing him off. “Something… um… I don’t think that is Prince Bartholomew…”

There’s a nervous chuckle, “What?”

“Just… trust me. Whatever is walking around in his skin _reeks_ of rotted flesh… but… it feels like something is yelling out for attention? I—I can hear it now, but I cannot hear the spirits of my own magic? Go. Keep an eye on him. I don’t know what plans he has or if it’s content with pretending to _be_ him. But something is wrong, and I can _feel_ it.”

“Wait. Hold on. Why didn’t you say anything last night?”

“I can’t just air out the man’s dirty laundry. But it wasn’t this strong last night. I could only smell it when I was close to him.”

Damien’s silent for a moment, “What does this mean?”

“He’s probably infiltrating the castle? I don’t know! Probably trying to start small before he _really _does some damage?”

The paladin sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in light aggravation. He’ll do anything for his best friend… “I’ll keep an eye on him the best I can. I can’t be with him all day knowing that Jolyon will get me working on something… but I’ll do my best. What are you going to do?”

“Go outside? Walk the grounds? I need air. Just give me some time.”

* * *

By dawn tomorrow, King Jolyon Cristwel will send his newest champion into the cities of Dómrien. No matter how excited the King is, Mohan and Emmeline cannot seem to match it. Emmeline’s anxiety bled into her work, leaving her unfocused and distracted, while that same nervous twist in her gullet sat like a rock in Mohan’s. However, he was not afraid to fail. He was terrified of what lurked in the castle. If he leaves, what happens then? Will anyone else notice that unwelcoming feeling for fall for his allure as most seem to do?

There’s a feeling of emptiness within him that he can’t seem to understand. At one point he was simply lifting jewelry from noblemen for the sake of the thrill, at the next he was challenging soldiers and champions in pit fights for fun. To end here felt as if there was a moment of disconnect.

There is a God in his head… or at least one _pretending_ to be.

Here sits years of skeptic belief. Years of watching Barrowlea cave into itself from the war that ate its way across the nation in a series of burned bodies and treachery. For years, listening to those stories of how the Pantheon would protect them and lead them back to victory where their people were free, and death would not coat their roads with blood and gore.

_The Gods will save them. _**Now?** After twenty years of death, decay, and warfare? **_Bullshit. _**The thing that haunts his mind, claiming to be some grand figure was nothing more than a coward. Why single one person out, bit by bit? What was the point of asking one and not _all_? Isn’t that what they were chosen for? Oracles were supposed to be the united group that saved their home as a unity… right? That was their prime objective and it felt as if even that was speculation.

It’s a mess. But there’s nothing he can do about it now, is there?

Despite everything, at least the rain feels nice this morning… It’s heavy. The lands have turned into a thick muck of mud and grass. Thunder cracks and lightning streaks across the sky in bright purple-white branches that brought Mohan mindlessly following the flow of it all.

“Can you hear me?” He keeps his voice low, eyeing a couple soldiers that saunter pass.

“_Yes._”

“Are you the Black Empress? For years, I learned who you were and never believed you to be a god.”

“_Do your people see me as such_?”

He stops, “It depends. Most know of the Empress as a god, others know her by legend alone.”

“_It is definitely a title I have not heard in quite some time._”

Mohan scrunched his lips. Off in the distance he could see the sight of the forest wall hazing through the heavy rainfall and fog. It’s a haunting sight, but beautiful, even when the rain isn’t as heavy as it was now. Quietly, he finds himself wandering through the training fields, wondering of what questions he could ask this being. But one sticks out, “How did you obtain such a title?”

“_Bren en’staa, that’s what they called me. They said I arrived within a supernova. The sky went black. The earth died at their feet, and there I stood. In the middle. They saw stars for the first time. Rivers. Mountains… I didn’t even remember my own name._”

“Do you believe them? A supernova would kill on-lookers.”

“_Perhaps it would, but I do believe them. I remember the hole they found me in. I remember the smell of the corpses at my feet that rose when I stood. It was as if I had been reborn._”

Mohan sighs, “Does rebirth do anything to us?”

“_Birth give you a part of me. It… makes you my own. Makes you my kin. Grants you a taste of what power should be for people like us. Rebirth gives us, those who were once weak, a chance to be great.”_

That’s what stops him in his tracks. Mohan fears failure. Even worse, he fears not being able to help… that’s how he got here, isn’t it? He watched the deaths of commoners burn at the stake, begging for help from an invisible force that would never come. He saw the slaughter children with magic due to men hunting for _him._ Almost hitting that moment of collapse in Crystalhiem was another story in itself… nevertheless, they brought the same conclusion. Mohan was one of the powerless craving to be valiant.

“Why us? Why… _me? _I’m just farmer who comes from a gallant family.”

“_The hand of fate blessed me with a child who wanted to be a Knight. One who would have stick-sword fights with his Protector and made it his life to find his place. I do not control that. That would ruin the secret of how magic works, don’t you think?_”

Mohan rolls his eyes, “I have been plagued with this for years. I wanted nothing of it and you’re just going to tell me it’s a secret?”

“_Choices never come with a true course of how they are picked. Life is random. Death is random. You never know who will come next. Just know that this power is well deserved._”

“I don’t believe I deserve a weight like this.”

“_My star, _**I**_ never deserved this weight. I wanted to escape my mortal body and fallen in love with a warrior I found in a forest. She wore a crown of light over her head and whispered to me that she’d give me infinite power and I fell for it… ‘Die for me,’ she said, ‘And you will know the power of the stars.’ Never thought that I’d crave for death when it eluded me time and time again. But when it corrupted me, I fell into a slumber. That slumber placed me in a plane I could never leave… but I could grace others with a power like mine—through a toss of the die. Nevertheless, through all my choices, either they strive positively or destroy themselves with corruption, I see all of you as my children… and my children deserve to see me._”

Thunder rolls again and as lightning strikes, he sees a shadow crawling within the fog, behind the trees of the forest wall. The silhouette seems to graze the top of the trees, curving itself to only give a monstrous view of what could only be a horned beast with two heads and several wavering tails behind it. A dragon, perhaps? One rare and old. Then again, those have been extinct for centuries. Even with it lurking in the haze of the fog, Mohan could see them—figures, black, in the shape of humans, all adorned with glowing white crowns against that gray mist. Every last one of them, far away from the ground beneath their feet.

It’s quiet again once he’s stepped through the thicket of the forest wall, all he can hear is the sound of his breathing and the pitter-patter of the rain around him… They are still there, however. He cannot see their faces, but they’re closer to the ground this time. The figures are all clad in black armor, the helms wide open to nothing but dark smoke that poured free in clouds, all of it glittered like that of the cold fog he saw in his dream.

They stand around him in neat, motionless lines, weapons down and shoulders broad. Slowly, as the Oracle crept through the unspeaking guards, he’s greeted with a pit, one shallow yet ripe with a fetor that twists knots in his stomach. A pit filled with disembodied hands and wet, fleshy bones of faceless innocents. There are limbs with muscle and no skin, heads with no familiar features—some missing eyes, others missing the other side of their face.

Mohan Ívarr had seen the burned bodies of the living… He has never seen a feeding pit.

“_There’s a monster among you, my little star. Do not let it breathe. It doesn’t deserve your kindness._”

** _Slay it._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi. i'm the glossary at the end.  
Glossary:  
1\. “D’a niet.” – This is a very specific term used among those bonded. (Think Lovers) It’s an old term not commonly used because only one part of it actually means what it’s saying. It means “Found you.” D’a is “found” and Niet is actually “beloved.” It’s original etymology is “Found lover.”  
2\. “Chā’ke Helysian, dà vo mør koi bin ji brevante. Lei ji veyr et vo ji vai.Tāt veyr konin a’shāvin imo øver du evahath maliond et veyr evliget ferdicom kell ahout du suino.” – Be well, Holy Protector as you meld with this vessel. He is yours as you are his. May your strength shine loudly over the [roar] [of] evil and your glorified skill smother out [those of] the true damned. – It is an old spell used to strengthen that of a Holy protector.  
3\. “Voi’staa” – One of the many titles of an Oracle as given by the Ancients. It means “Void Star” or “Child of the Black Stars.”  
4\. “Helysian” – The proper title of a bonded Saint Protector. It is the highest title a Barrowlean Holy Protector can obtain. Oracles have been known to give this title to others, but it is very few. It’s also a title given by the Ancients.  
5\. “Bren en’staa” – It is rumored to be the title only given to Kularis when she rose for the first time. It means “The Black Star” due to her being the last shooting star seen before color and sunlight graced Barrowlea for the first time.


	12. Nerves.

“Tell me something about you, Mohan. Anything. What are your ambitions? What makes you special?”

“There’s a set of weird eyes on this ugly mug, otherwise there is nothing.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Then start listing.”

There’s a flash of Sybel’s smile on white lips, “I’ll be limited and very specific.”

The scholar brings a discomfort to Mohan in every ounce of, well, _him_. To the Oracle, the Professor was forever _too_ close. He hated the way that man circled around him like a hungry vulture eying its prey. Sybel, a man of intelligence and a wealth only men could dream of, made him sick to his stomach. All that power could only get you so far **_but_** the pants of an uneducated farm-boy. He could flaunt it to anyone who cared, and Mohan would never be one of them.

Everything about that man felt wrong when all he was a deviant clad in diamonds pretending as if he was worth something more.

“You hear the voices of sprits long forgotten lives. You can find them even when they’ve been destroyed or devoured.” He pauses, “I’ve noticed that you can smell death. Not because it’s fresh, but because it lingers on the flesh of others. That’s how you spot those creatures, isn’t it? You can smell them, festering… _rotting_ underneath the skin they stole. It amazes me. Perhaps one day it’ll truly come in handy again.”

When he needs it most… Standing at the mouth of a pit, mulling over why he can’t seem to figure out how it went over his head.

Sixteen.

There were sixteen bodies in that hole all mutilated beyond recognizable comprehension. Necromancers descended into the murky depths of the five-foot hole with black masks over their faces and thick leather gloves over their fingers unsure of what truly lay within the gory mud below their feet. There’s caution among the mages, that glow of their magic pulsing through in hopes to find the dead souls that should linger nearby.

Mohan wanted to speak up on it. Blame the Prince. Have him investigated. Still have this pit cleared before dark. Yet, as his lips parted, nothing came but a soft breath. There were pits like this teeming with the charred; smoking remains of innocent lives preyed upon by traitors hellbent on preserving a race that was never in any danger. These were people who fought for humans yet left them to die in the slums they created or at the hands of the fiends they starved purposely.

Was this their true sight of justice or were they hungry for chaos?

That’s what this pit reminded him of—the horrors that lie just east of them, where the war strives, and people perished under the treasonous thumb of a throne thief. However, this wasn’t them leaving a stain on the King’s land, instead this was the thriving hunger of one whom had made its way blindly through countryside after countryside, coexisting within its host unbeknownst to everyone.

Everyone but the hunch of the young Oracle, that is.

“There are no spirits lurking here, not even curious ones,” he finally spoke, “the best idea I can give is to investigate everyone.”

“Everyone, sir?” A mage glances up from the hole, he doesn’t quite pull down his mask, but his questions are clear, “Wouldn’t that take too long?”

“If you’re good at your job, no. We’re listening out for terror. Any voice that sounds like it’s calling out for you—answer. Best bet is to also seek out anyone who reeks of old meat, rotted flesh, or anything decaying. They are our number one enemy.”

A few necromancers crawl free of the pit, a couple more taking the hands of armored guards to pull them out, but all stand quiet. Eventually one speaks, starting with a nod, “What do we do when we find the one who did this?”

“Find me or Commander Aslan _immediately_.” Nothing could ever prep Mohan for the bass of Jolyon’s voice. He’s loud, but never grating. His voice holds a hum that’s soothing, but commanding. With a bow from the mages outside the hole the others within continued rummaging, throwing limbs and bones up to the surface that were moved promptly to an old, now muddied, yellowing cloth that looked to have only seen death and blood. Jolyon sighs, running his hand down his face with a frown, “How did you come across this?”

Mohan fidgets, “Gut instinct.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I could smell it. It was… nauseating, but sickly sweet. It… It felt as if something lured me here.”

“Smell it on _what_? Don’t leave out details.”

“Prince Totlemill.”

It’s unreal how _large_ Jolyon is. The way he towers over Mohan leaves a frightening sight of focused hazel eyes that shimmer beneath that cascading shadow he set. “And you didn’t speak of this… _why?_”

“Didn’t think anything of it, I swear. I just…We know very little of the Totlemill’s and their legacy. They could be cannibals for all we know… but then… this morning, the stench of it all was powerful.”

“Mhm.”

“I can’t judge a brat prince if his anger is as short as he is. What type of person would I be if I announced the fact that he may have been a murderer and it turned out that he’s just another scavenger? _That’s what that smelled like in the beginning._”

“And Damien knows nothing about this?”

“The Blood Paladins don’t teach him how to spot this shit.”

Jolyon huffs, “You ought to speak a little higher of them—”

“You want me to respect an order that doesn’t even respect their own soldiers!? When they prove me wrong and they train their Paladins to be _Paladins_ is when I’ll respect them. You **can’t** and you **_won’t_** stop me from preaching their failures to the world.” A deep breath. In. Out. “Damien should have noticed it too… and he didn’t.”

There comes a nod from the king, one curt and still focused on the fetid pool at his feet. However, before he speaks, he glances down to his godson. His hand, large and callused, gripping at the Oracles scruffy chin, thumb pressing tightly against that still sensitive skin where the healing cut lay almost curious. Yet a word of it never comes. Jolyon straightens his back and glares back down at that rancid pit with a grimace, “Nothing changes, Mohan. You’ll be sent out first thing in the morning. I’ll investigate this.”

Hours come and go, and gossip has lined the halls of the estate. Guards have been distributed to noble blood and Damien, despite his reluctance, was tied back to Bartholomew’s hip.

_Take a breath. Take a breath. Take a breath… Take a breath…_

There are things that come suddenly and then there is _this. _Mohan didn’t quite understand how to handle something like _this._ There’s a God whispering in his ear, an abomination luring innocent souls into the woods, and a heist holding something… **_extravagant._** What does he do? For once, he has to think like every other soldier—_fight_ or _plan_? That was the right idea, was it not? He could not just _rush_ the Prince nor could he leave tomorrow morning with it weighing on his mind.

** _Shit._ **

Mayhaps this was too much for a farmer. He could calm a crying soul and breathe life into farmland with no problem, but… this? It was different, that’s for sure. But stressing over it will not _solve _it.

** _Breathe._ **

If it _is_ the Prince, he’ll have to be monitored. A shadow behind him at all times to ensure that someone knows where he’s been and where he’s going, but after that what else? He cannot be followed into the baths or overlooked when he goes to rest… unless…?

In the middle of the estate’s foyer Mohan stops. Why exactly is he doing this? He could give up now. Pretend he was nothing once again and just… _run._ But wouldn’t that just label him as a coward? The Priest who left a kingdom to wither. The coward who brought ruin. He doesn’t need more of a stain to his name because of the doubt in his heart. But he’s not prepared for something on this scale so… _suddenly._ A heist was one thing. It was a cautious step forward for a quest for some type of happiness. At the end was supposed to answer the question of “do I really want to continue down one of these paths?” And this was supposed to be his freedom.

Now it’s halted.

For good reason, yes but he’s nervous. Oh yes, he's very nervous—teetering dangerously on the edge of overcome with an unexplainable fear. He can feel a shake to his hands and a race to his heart. Everything feels as if it's going downhill and leaving him in the cataclysmic shit-show to rot beneath the mound of ever-growing shit. But what could he do? Mohan could take to the fight himself and push forward. He could accept that no matter what-- _this is not the end of his journey._ And yet, he stands there with a twinge in his chest and his eyes burning. He's bit off a touch too much, hasn't he?

There’s a long, shuddered sigh that comes from the young priest. At the beginning he was ready for this. This was the step away into a profession he was enthralled by. He wanted to bring pride back to a champions name by following behind his mother’s footsteps with his head held high—even if it meant he wouldn’t _technically_ be the skilled assassin she used to be. He wanted to be close enough as his siblings had with their own goals, professions, and families.

It all leads back to that “God” in his head. She mentioned to him that her grimoire was the same one that Jolyon sought out. Despite the horror that lay at the edges of this royal estate, he couldn’t explain the craving he felt to get his hands on that one book. To hear that it _could_ have been owned by that of a “God” or at least an Oracle powerful enough to speak through dreams, he _had_ to have it… Even if it did mean trying to hide it from one of the best spies in the empire.

Probably wouldn’t work, but he could at least try to persuade the King.

_Heavens be with me._ It’s an idiotic idea, but one with weight.

A grip at his bicep brings him back to reality with a jolt. He stumbles, reaching back to grasp the arm pulling at him, yet instead, Mohan is greeted with the furious lavender eyes of a former Princess.

“A feeding pit,” she keeps her voice at a low, angry whisper, keeping the Oracle as close to her as possible. “**_How?_**”

“I don’t… I don’t know. I’ve never come across one before.”

Emmeline steps back, her face an ever-changing set of emotions. “How did you not see this coming? Isn’t that your job?”

“I’m not a fucking bloodhound.” Mohan huffs, “Isn’t it your job to secure the land? _You_ should have seen this coming.”

Her mouth opens then closes and a furrow ripples across her brows. An insult, it wasn’t, but she seems to take it that way. He was right. This was _her _job. Though an assassin, yes, it was her and her scouts that kept a focused eye on each and every corner of this land and she and her people failed. She didn’t need Mohan to reminder of her of that. Instead, Emmeline clenches her jaw then focuses back on him, “How are we going to handle this?”

“**_We!?_**” Faces glance their way and Mohan clears his throat, “This is not a ‘_we_’ job, Emmeline. Jolyon is still sending us out whether you want to go or not.” He pauses, straightening up with a sigh, “If you want to stay back and help, then do so. I’ll continue forward and take any failures on my own.”

She takes a breath and closes her eyes for a moment. It’s a “we” job when there are bodies lying in their wake, of course, but who’s going keep the rookie alive if not her? Definitely not the walking, clanging tank of a guard of his, that’s for sure. “Please speak with Jolyon before we leave in the morning. We might have more work to do before we go… that does mean trying to identify the bodies and who did this.”

“Me assisting in this is bound to happen. He does need a skilled necromancer to get a feel for things.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“No promises.”

Emmeline huffed. She looks pale… if he could say that. Her charcoal-grey skin didn’t seem to hold the luster it held before. Makes you wonder what she’s really gone through before taking this route. Had she seen the pit and stood in awe as he did? Did it twist her stomach into knots and remind her of the horrors this land brings? Had she truly been to war or was she one of those decorated commanders that pointed at a map and let others die for her?

Makes you wonder.

“How do you handle this?”

Mohan shrugs, “You’re asking a difficult question.”

“I saw it with that guard of yours. Jolyon doesn’t seem too pleased and the guard looked as if this was normal!”

“He did grow up with _me_, Captain.” Things don’t quite shock the two of them much anymore. A mess like this simply worried them. No, a mess like this made Mohan ill and put Damien on edge. It’s the smell over the sight usually. One that put Mohan off meat for good. “We’ll settle this when we finish the job at hand.”

Emmeline nervously rocks back and forth, “You may be right. Meet me in the haberdashery when you’re done doing whatever it is you were doing. We need to prep for tomorrow morning.”

…And survive the night, at least.


	13. Backup Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly... i forgot to post this...

When there is a gala there is controversy. When there is controversy, there is--- _intrigue._ The Watch, they call it, a game mostly played by nobles and politicians where they find themselves immersed in the dance of danger. For some, it is a show, of course. Many just want their name spoken by strangers for the thrill. The majority, however, hold a serious grasp, flirting with the scandal of questionable morals and dangerous ambition.

It’s the best time to be an assassin or a thief.

And for Mohan, it was simply out of curiosity. They are a sloppy bunch, those thieves are, he barely saw the assassins. He’d watch as their fingers dipped into the deep pockets of the folk around them, but eventually, they were spotted by someone they were trying to pickpocket. And yet, every little thing they tried to snag seemed piddly to the Oracle. They fished for silver and platine royals from the thick purses of top knights and the powerful.

It sat interesting that they avoided High Senators and Kings. Why was that? They weren’t protected by guards. They wore rubies, diamonds, gold, platinum, and gems so painfully rare that it felt as if you had to pay your life away to even _see_ them. **_Those_** were the worthwhile goals and here they were snagging money when they could be trading larger things for more than just a couple gold.

However, that was just an assumption that came from a novice of thief—_if_ he could call himself that.

He held such nimble fingers. Ones graceful and soft as the tips of his digits grace the skin of royalty. They thought nothing of it once they caught the easing, somewhat false, smile of the young, budding Oracle. Why assume a gentle lad would ever rob you blind? He was to be trusted like all other Oracles. _Seen_ like other Oracles. There was no worry with him mingling amongst the crowds fresh-faced and dedicated… If _dedicated_ could describe his actions.

But, he, like the other mindless thieves, is being watched. _Studied_, more so, by professionals. A King and a General to be specific.

“How many people do you think he’s lifted from?”

Jolyon snorted into his glass of wine, one that looked closely to a shot glass of fruity wine than anything else, “Two? Maybe three?”

“He’s very smart about it. Gets them talking while he snatches a ring right off their finger and if he doesn’t like it, pretends they dropped it on the floor. Wonder where he got that from…” High General Jaques Calvet was one to follow fascination; it’s how he and Jolyon became close. When they saw a challenge, they saw a goal.

“Definitely _not_ from Ayasha… She never liked working with thieves. Didn’t trust them.”

The General chuckles, “It feels like something that’d pass from mama to her petit fils.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that. It’d be an insult.” Jolyon squinted, “But if we don’t tell her about this… maybe we can perfect him.”

Calvet is shorter than Jolyon. Not by a foot or so, but the comparison betwixt the two is massive. Standing at the King’s side, he’s almost shadowed by the sheer size of the man. But no one ever said half-elves were as tall as their half-giant counterparts.

“What are you thinking? Hm?” The High General glances up, his head craning upward to catch his friend’s passing gaze, “You want to turn a priest into a master thief? Kataleya will have your head.”

“And that’s why we don’t bring it up to anyone.” Jolyon shrugs, “We give him Ayasha’s training regimen and build him into a great fighter and just… _enhance_ his little ticks and trades. No one has to know but us.”

“And what about Damien? Can’t train one and not the other.”

“You know me better than that. When I can finally pull him away from his Blood Oath, I’ll really give him a better… something. Something better than whatever they teach him.”

“One step at a time, I suppose… Unless you give him to me.”

“You want that project?”

Calvet makes a low noise, “Yes. I want him to see his value rather than destroy his mind with Paladins who want more than just mindless soldiers. I can do that. I can remold him… but we have to get him away from _them_.”

“Deal.” Jolyon pauses, “See if you can bring him to the back ballroom. We should see if we can at least convince him into the training… Damien’s will be far later.”

“Are their grasp on him _that_ tight?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well, I suppose that calls for a royal command override? Because **_I_** can’t do it, _mon ami_… but _someone_ can.”

Three years and nothing has changed from that moment. There are moments where Jolyon recounts the conversation over and over in his head—**_You want to turn him into a master thief?_** Does he? Did he truly want to do this, or did he want to keep Mohan’s mother’s legacy alive? She was the best of the best. A champion they never deserved, but one that wore the heads of her targets as proud trophies on her waist. Mohan deserves a legend as chaotic as hers.

Ayasha Redhawke is how Jolyon met her. It wasn’t her real name, but it became one nonetheless. No one ever investigated why nor did they ever decide to question it. That’s who she was. That’s who she shall be. He could remember the gore she was covered in when they met, the gnarled bear pelt that sat as a hood over her short black hair, but the fresh pelt, still holding little muscle and bone, bled over her shoulders. Enemies lay unmoving at her bare feet, arrows in her back, and her blade shattered.

Jolyon had never fallen in love as hard as he had that bleak morning… but that’s another story for a day that never comes.

She trudged her way through the Cristwel training willingly and taught others as she could. Yet even then, as she worked her way through the shadows of Barrowlea, no other assassin ever topped the death count of The Bear.

Would it be wrong to have Mohan follow suit? He may not be an assassin, but he could be one if he so chose to if the “thief” life eventually ran its course. However, there was the option of improving him. Shaping his magic into a tool so potent that he could safely leave the sheltered life of the church because that’s what he quested for. This ought to be more difficult than he planned.

Jolyon spent his mornings with Mohan, watching his interest pique with new weapons introduced into his arsenal and how relaxed his mind and body was when he was free from the holy law of the Kularian Sacellum. He’d be a liar if he claimed the sight of it didn’t make him feel like a proud parent… but then it all falls to the other one—Damien. He thought he’d have a swing at teaching him before he stupidly followed the allure of a paladin oath that held no care for its people.

He was trapped, Jolyon knew that. Once you sign your life to them, they own it. It’s how they’ve lured countless mages into their filthy grasp and tied the knot around their nooses. They don’t care for them. They want mindless fighters who will stand at the front lines and be slaughtered like cattle, because that’s all they were, right? Fodder for the rest to trample over in war and battle because they couldn’t truly fight.

It does make him suspicious, but he holds no ground to investigate without Imperial say-so. All Jolyon wanted to know was how they did it. How did they manage to wiggle their way into the heads of weak or lost mages and convince them that their word was true? The bodies stacked in their ledgers never sat right with him.

Paladins don’t just die that easily nor do they give up so quickly. And if he’s going to tackle this… _problem_ of sorts, he has to keep this paladin **alive. **Perhaps while Mohan sits chest-deep within Ryja territory, he’ll finally take a step between the Blood Order and Damien. Perhaps he can take it one step higher and beckon an even higher power than he and the Emperor—_Kataleya._

Would they really fight the power of the Knight-Oracle herself? He’s painfully curious. Jolyon knew they’d never listen to Mohan’s demands of removing Damien from the Order, but would they try so with her? For many, there sits a fear towards her that he could understand. She was a war-hero and the survivor of a dead clan the druidic gods banished into the void… Or so the rumors go, at least. She’s not that far and if neither of them could convince him, _she could._

A knock comes and Jolyon’s head perks up from his thoughts. He could turn whomever it was away to simply figure out a plan to handle this predicament at hand, but with all the factors at his feet, it leaves him heavy chested.

The distraction would be needed.

“Come.”

A massive woman, she is, almost as tall as he and just as powerful. Thick peppered hair of dark brown and silver, the sides shaved down and left with little lines of design, and left over her shoulder in a taut, long braid. She looks like him, sans the softer features and higher cheekbones. Her lips are full and nose a touch crooked, but still a lovely sight to behold… from a father’s standpoint, that is.

He sighs, arms extended to embrace her tightly, but he refuses to let go.

“I heard about the pit.”

“I figured,” he steps back, “did you get my message?”

“Yes, and I spoke to him before I came in.”

“Sit. Tell me about it.”

Ivy Cristwel was a woman to be feared as her father was. She was the first of his blood, Crown-Princess, of course, and the High-Commander of his personal army. A dangerous woman, that Ivy is, for the blood of a giant runs through her veins and the ferocity of a barbarian drives her to fight—as it should. Jolyon would never allow any of his own blood kin to ever leave his land without the ability to slay, at the least, a village on their own.

And she has proven herself time and time again.

“Apparently Mohan has got him thinking already.” She smiles at the sight of her father’s raised brow, “Oh yes. He claims that they spoke about it last night, however he doesn’t quite know where to begin with leaving…” Her voice lowers, “he believes they may attempt to kill him.”

“Kill him? It does make sense with how high he is… but would they be able to get away with such an attack?”

“I wondered the same thing. Newly ranked as a Commander? The one everyone wants to talk about because of _who_ he commands?” Ivy shivers, “It would be such the scandal. They’d fight to keep him or make it look like an accident.”

“You make it sound like he has the power to ruin them.”

“And you don’t? Think of it! He could waltz in there tonight and leave them smoldering by night.” Jolyon is in no way a silent King. He enjoys working from the shadows, but at times, he prefers to be loud and animated—as his daughter was now, with her hands grasping at the air and eyes wide with a childish glee. She was the epitome of “like father, like daughter.” Nevertheless, she smiles, “You’d think he’d be as brainwashed as the lot of them by now, but he isn’t. Someone is standing in the way. So, I kept that in mind and went looking for your, quite frazzled, Oracle.”

“Frazzled? Has something else come up? He wasn’t anything like that this morning.”

“He’s… uncomfortable with the silence in his head. I’m not sure what that means.” She puts a hand up, “Either way, I feel that there needs to be more eyes on this and I can’t be the only one patrolling and I can’t be the only one trying to worm my way into your Paladin’s head.”

“Thought about that. You think you can find Kataleya for me? I’m gonna need at least _one_ Oracle in this house to figure out what’s happening.”

“She’s not too far out, actually. But… can’t Mohan do this himself?”

“Yes and no. He’s doing something else for me. I’m just in need of a very big stick for a very big pest problem.”

“And your Paladin problem?” Ivy questions, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Like you said, you can’t be the one only in his head. So, I’m going to convince him to use the really big stick.”

“Please keep me updated. A paladin defect ought to be a fascinating thing to watch.”

A devious sparkle shines bright in the King’s eyes, “Oh don’t you worry, baby-girl. This ought to be the most excitement we’ve had in a while.”

Outside of his main mission of ridding his territory of low-lives, there was always something else to pop up behind it. Mohan could handle himself. He knew that. This objective wouldn’t leave him captured or his land in flames just yet… But with Damien, it damn well could. Especially against the Blood Order.

He needed help at this point. Someone who people feared most while he was out of reach with his Junior Oracle.

Jolyon needed his Champion. He needed Kataleya.


	14. A Pit and a Plague.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shockingly, nano is really keeping me on track with chapters.

“Mohan?”

“Yes, General?”

“Do you have anything that belongs to Lady Merin? She said she was missing a bracelet.”

He scrunches his nose for a moment, “A bracelet? No. I did return a beautiful charm to that larger woman. It broke off her headpiece. That’s as far as my adventure has gone.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

Calvet watched the boy stop in his movements. He almost looks defensive, but focused. Yet slowly the young Oracle eases with a simple smile. It’s unnerving. A part of the General can’t read it—is the smile that admits to his misdeeds or is he nervous?

Instead, he follows it up with a roll of his eyes and turn of his head, “I promise you I did not take any bracelets.”

“I don’t believe you. Empty your pockets, Mohan.”

“Are… you accusing me of stealing?”

There’s a silence shared between them and the door to the empty ballroom opens with a creek and closes with a click. It’s a relatively small room, one usually used for smaller parties. It’s a wine-colored room, dark reds and creamy off-whites on an even whiter floor. Small, skinny tables and a few chairs sit covered in the furthest wall away from the double oak doors.

However, standing at the door, tiny champagne glass pinched between thumb and index, is Jolyon at full height, head just a bit over the door frame itself. Slowly he saunters through the room, finishing off the glass before sitting it to the floor with a huff.

“You are not in any trouble, Mohan. We’re curious of your… _haul._” The King gives a vague gesture, “Put everything you picked up on the floor and we’ll discuss how we can help avoid any problems that may arise.”

Mohan sighs and pulls at a few rings on his hand and drops them to the floor with a clatter. Five rings became eight more and several bracelets and bangles that seemed all clipped together safely to ensure he had them all in one secure spot. Soon after, he began to lay out necklaces and even those still had charms and more rings slid down the chains in an abundance of gold and silver.

Jolyon is quiet. No witty commentary to his friend nor any words of wisdom to his god-son. Awe sat stitched across his face as he watched the young man continue to pull more little trinkets from the pockets of his jacket and waistcoat. Yet, what really left him with his mouth agape were the few knives and lockpicking kits he held tucked within his boot.

They assumed he had only snatched a few little things here and there, when in fact, he took the chase others were too timid to hunt for—royals and _other_ thieves.

“You said two or three things, Jolyon,” Calvet speaks.

“I did… How—how long have you been doing this? Not counting today.” Mohan shrugs. “Go on. A couple weeks? Some months?”

“A few years now, but I never stole that woman’s bracelet.”

“A few years…!” Jacques is alive with emotion. His hazel eyes widen with joy and mouth sits agape with a few squeaks and kid-like giddy smiles. All this jewelry that sat at their feet and all they saw was him dip his fingers into the pockets of just a couple people. He’s speechless! Had this boy simply been following a quiet itch for this long without someone noticing? How large is his personal hoard? What is it filed with? OH!—how the questions dancing in his head leave him vibrating with excitement, but his arms scoop the young man close, “Oh, there is a greatness to be built within you, my boy!”

The story of a thief starts different for the lot of them, doesn’t it? Every last of them find it through the heist that they relive over and over in their heads… Mohan’s isn’t like that. His was the heist that no one knew of, but a story that begins with the utterance of _“greatness.” _And Mohan is beginning to doubt that **_“greatness.”_** Success came at a cost, he knew that, and with time, he knew that goal could be obtained… but _not_ within three short, agonizing years of whatever this training was. Then again, that’s what doubt does to you. It keeps you in a suspended sense of disbelief knowing that there’s _been_ progress, **_you_** simply don’t want to trust it.

Fair, though.

At least he did make it this far.

As the afternoon came, as did the lockdown of the estate. He could see guards trailing the healers and necromancers like hounds awaiting their next meal as if _they_ were the enemy to watch. Then again, a pit filled with the gory remains of the unknown—who else would it be if **_not_** a necromancer? For most of them, it was in their forte of messy but successful magic that loomed a sense of danger and intrigue.

However.

“Lord Oracle, she’s arrived.”

However, it’s usually _always_ frowned upon. A shame. The blood magic that fills most necromancy breathes a thrill so dangerous that it could leave the user dead or dying. A pity many refuse to chase it for the study of it all. But he would, uncaring of how others saw him or his visceral hobby. That does include how _she_ complains about it the most—**_Kataleya._**

Again, it doesn’t phase him. Magic is magic, after all. The entire point of him _being_ here was to be creeping shadow, as quiet as the rising fog, and more dangerous than any oncoming storm—or at least, that’s the dramatic flair that Jolyon spun on it. But it was true! If he were the lurking shadow, he could use that to his advantage to make his way back to the pit without being seen. He could use that morbid little hobby of his to learn more of if the pit belonged to the creature the “god” spoke of.

But first, the guest of the hour, the Knight-Oracle, herself.

Oh, **_Kataleya_**. Her appearance to the estate was a buzz on the lips of onlookers. A few spoke up of her here and there and a handful of guards did nothing but praise her, for the fact that she was one of the best, of course. To them, she earned her title. She earned a status that was handed to her through osmosis as his was. She served her wars and aided in rebuilding cities that it often left Mohan with one understanding: he had one part of her earned title down… next is to serve in some war and he’s gotten close there.

Alas, there’s not much he can do when it comes to the Senior-Oracle but stand in her shadow and nod politely as if he were just another one of them. But he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t love to see her. Kataleya _was_ like family to him. She raised him as if he were her own when he became an Oracle and never quite left his side.

Yet, there she was, like the bog druid that he grew up with. Fur casted over her shoulders and a cape of feathers to her back, horns, long and strong, curled at her makeshift crown, adorned with little jewels and capped with silver. She came through the front doors of the estate dressed in white and black, the jacket to her uniform pressed neatly and creased just right. The shine of her uniform almost put others to shame. However, she pauses with arms wide and smile broad before being scooped up into Jolyon’s warm (overly tight) embrace. She steps back, smile faltering and gaze steeling as she turned herself to her student.

“A pit?”

Mohan frowns, “Not my fault shit can just happen within a few hours.”

“A—_a few hours?_ A pit that big cannot be created in _a few fucking hours._”

“Then find your pit-maker and figure it out the time span yourself.”

Kataleya sighs, “I’m sorry. It’s just… that’s a **very** big pit.”

“Do you have an idea of how to handle this?”

“Eat the skinwalker, perhaps?” A cringe from Mohan, one that twists his stomach and leaves him visibly disgusted and could hear the audible groan from Jolyon. “Fine. Can’t add _more_ bodies to it. So, when we find it, we burn it in the pit it created. That’s how you handle skinwalkers. Unless it’s a cannibalistic shifter, then that…? We have to carve out the heart and crush it into a finely squished pulp. Their hearts _do _make very good potions.”

“Oh, jeez. Let’s go before you make these guards think _you’re_ the evil one here.”

Kataleya smiles with a playful shimmy to her shoulders as she steps around the King and his godson. It’s an interesting sight when the Elder Oracle comes about. Demeanors change. Conversations fluctuate. There is an odd kindness that’s wrought with messy lies and exuberant masks to make sure the Oracle keeps them in **her** good graces. Guards bow when they see her. They whisper sweet greetings in hopes for a smile and a wink, but Mohan sees them for the mess that they are.

It’s interesting what power can truly hold in a place like this.

There is something about her that leaves men infatuated at the sight of her. She stands a head shorter than Mohan, strong shoulders, and powerful, muscular legs. There was a long black tattoo down the middle of her lips that ended in a faded gradient between her cleavage. Her tattoos, unlike Mohan’s, were inked, rather than branded. However, that’s not what tempted the hearts of men around her. They said it was her “wicked” stare. Even with eyes blacker than night itself, they could feel the seductress nature of it all luring them to their end. In confessions, they whispered how they wanted to taste her full lips and feel her skin beneath their fingers and to this day, every man and straggling woman he’s question all respond the same:

“She smells of heaven. Like fresh cinnamon and clean water. Sometimes like mint and nature.”

And for some odd reason, with Bartholomew staring up at her with big, doe eyes, he chews at his lips, but doesn’t utter a line like theirs, “You remind me of God. You look like the version they put in picture books back home.”

“What a compliment! You’ll leave me red, but _I _am not a Goddess or _any _other god, my young Prince.” She leans close to him, placing her forehead against his and grabbing his hands, keeping her voice low, “But I will praise your name to the heavens to ensure your kind words never rot.”

“I…” He began, his knuckles begin to white with how tightly he begins to grip her fingers, “I have _prayed_ to see her visage and you come so close even if you aren’t.” His fingers tangle with hers and voice drops, “Your people must see you. Let them worship at your feet, my Goddess.”

“Please, Prince Totlemill, I’m sorry to ruin your visions of me, but I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not.” She’s stepping back now, pulling her hands free with a struggle, yet leaving a polite bow before turning away from him and pushing up the stairs.

But there comes a pause.

_“I know you’re the Queen of Plagues.”_

Though she gives a thin, albeit awkward, smile, the Prince does not reciprocate. His eyes are wide and breath shallow, as if he’s more than amazed—_entranced,_ even, at the sight of her. His heart thuds and hands shake as she pulls away and his guard struggle to pull his focused gaze free from the woman of the hour who disappears quietly into the King’s personal study.

She closes the door, that persona melting like ice over lava and glanced at Mohan, then over to Jolyon, “Is… Is it me or does it feel as if that man has been pouring opium into his eyeballs for the past two weeks?”

“I don’t think he’s ever experienced anything like this before, honestly.” Jolyon shrugs, “Perhaps, once this is over, you and Mohan can help him ease into getting used to Oracles.”

Mohan collapsed into one of the high-backed chairs, a leg draped over an arm, “He doesn’t believe me that the Prince is our problem.”

“I didn’t say that,” Jolyon scoffs.

“Keep talking,” Kataleya responds, knocking Mohan’s leg back to the floor.

“When he arrived, I could smell a rot on him, but it’s not like I could have spoken up on that nor was it enough to worry. But I could smell the pit before I knew it existed and I followed it… but… There are no souls to be found there.”

“How did you connect it to him,” Jolyon questioned, “that’s what I wanted to know.”

“_The Smell._ No one else around us smells like that but soldiers who’ve returned from the war, but even they have a lingering scent of misery and sweat mixed in that. Vitamancer and necromancers _can_ smell of decay, but they can hide that smell a lot better than you think.”

Kataleya is at the King’s desk now, sitting at the tabletop with her legs crossed at the ankles and her elbows resting at her thighs, “That’s because skinwalkers devour _everything._ Souls give them the energy. Skin, flesh, bones… it’s all dinner except for the body that hosts. Soon, as long as we keep starving him of a humanoid body, he’ll show himself without us having to investigate.”

“I don’t trust that.” Mohan shakes his head. “There’s something about it that just… _Hm._ With how fast that pit was created, it’s smart. It knows how to reserve its energy, as if it has done this before.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Damien would be dead. Every guard that travelled with them would be nothing but a puddle of their own gore and flesh. It knows how to mask itself, but with so many ripe, fresh bodies around it, it’s slipping… but it doesn’t answer the question of why he immediately ran to you when he loathed the sight of me.”

“Did he?”

“He’s never seen an Oracle before. Thought I was a demon, but _you— _a god. It’s… weird, is all I’m saying.”

Kataleya presses her lips together but never speaks. She’s not sure what to say about that. But to be compared to a Goddess of death felt… different. Who knew a man of his stature would care about the religion of _druids…_ but… “This explains why you have a skinwalker pit. Bartholomew, or what _was_ Bartholomew, is the host of a demon—keep in mind that skinwalkers are made from corrupted druids. But because, his people are atheist, why would he ever care?” She taps at her chin, “I suppose Jolyon and Calvet have taught you something while I was gone. Either way, we stay out of its way and I’ll… entertain his dream of meeting a God to keep him distracted while Jolyon’s men do the heavy lifting.” She holds up a finger, “Just one little thing: Stay away from that goddamned pit, Mohan. I kept you long enough to know better than ignore you.”

Oh, is that a visible frown? A harmless pout from Mohan? He gives her a rounding sound of acceptance before shrugging his shoulders, “I promise.”

Fingers crossed, however.


	15. Pit Fiend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hit a hard wall the other day. things may slow down or it might take a month hiatus, but for now, i got a lot to post, but little ideas of where to go.

The guise of the shadows is a trick most others simply can’t prefect. Your body becomes nothing but a ghost that matches the quiet of the world around you and slides into nothing. You must learn what the earth feels like against your skin as you traverse closer to the soil than the quiet rangers who spend their hours staring blankly into the haze of the world around them.

Learn your ground and you’ll succeed as a better ranger. Learn the earth and you’ll succeed as a better thief, because the ground will manipulate beneath your touch, but the earth shall always remain the same. Perfect this mentality and one will never fail.

“I will ensure you are _perfect._”

Calvet was more than a soldier; he was a terror. That’s why he and Jolyon have thrived at each other’s side for so long. Centuries of their unification have brought wars to end and cities to ruin. But if there was something he could do with loud pride, was make champions just as dangerous as Jolyon’s. The thought of it made his heart flutter, but they weren’t particularly warriors like the Cristwel perfected, but rangers and assassins made withstand the horrors of land and the harshness of weather and challenges that could leave them beaten and battered.

But as long as their hands could remain invisible while a smile stained the faces of professional liars, Calvet knew he had succeeded, and for Mohan, he needed that success, even if he couldn’t be there through most of his training. Nevertheless, he trusted Jolyon’s training more than anything. As long as Mohan followed his precise advice, he could do it.

And Mohan knew he could.

He needed to be back at that pit.

The grimoire clutched to the necromancer’s bosom is frightfully old. The bindings were bent, the cover was rough and tattered, and pages were torn and stuffed back into random spaces. It was a loved, old book, one that stood as a guide rather than a place of power. A gift to Mohan from Kataleya. She said the old thing belonged to her mentor who stuffed it full of old spells and experimental ideas that she believed would never see the light of day.

Mohan knew better than that.

The magic that lay dormant in that old book just needed a push forward and his mentor wasn’t the one to do so. Does it sound elitist? To most, yes, if they didn’t know her. As a druid, her magic didn’t weave like that of elemental mage or a curious witch. Her body, her mind, her hands spoke to nature and lived loudly through the life of corruption and health whereas Mohan’s thrived from silence of life and death. And that’s what made this more exciting. At least he knew his magic would figure _something _out.

Nevertheless, he had to stay cautious. The Crown-Princess’ guard walk the edges of the estate, some chatting with others, the rest dragging their mounts behind them silently. They pose no threat. Mohan could care less about them. They walked the lands doing their job to watch for anomalies like him traversing the shadows, but in truth, if there was no imposing threat—they didn’t care. And that’s what made Mohan more excited.

However, he didn’t come travelling alone.

“You’re a lot faster than you used to be,” Damien stood hunched for a moment. “I still don’t like it. Makes me sick to my stomach.”

“Hopefully we don’t have to crawl once we’re done.”

“So, what exactly do we need to do to reclaim one of the souls?”

Mohan squats for a moment, thumbing through the rough book and shuffling through a few loose pages. He remembered one held a diagram specific to this. It was a flame colored black and another not colored at all, a ring that looked melted, two little blob like people cheering around the ring. On the diagram read a few words he could make out, “Fire,” “Light,” “Void,” and “Salt.” But in what order? He’s not sure how that part goes.

“Read this.”

“You can read it. Take it slow.”

Mohan frowns, “It’s in that curly shit—_cursive_. I can’t read this.”

“You’re going to have to learn it eventually…” Damien thumbs through the page, skimming over a few words as Mohan circled the pit, flaking a cup of salt in a few places. The page was _something._ Some of it was written easy to understand, some was written in Cerlyic, but the incantation was one he had never seen. The way it was scribbled into the paper had torn holes and bled into the backside of the page. The letters were shaky and the words blurred before his eyes. It almost felt as if _he_ wasn’t allowed to read this.

“You okay?”

“Y-yeah… It says we need heat, a flame of black and one of white then this spell I don’t think I can read.”

“Please don’t say that. I can’t go get someone else to help me with this.”

The page is illegible to him, though the words no longer sit blurred to him, the language is still unclear like letters corrupted and shoved together. Though gibberish, he could at least _try_ now. Watching as Mohan dips his fingers into a small pile of sand, he does the same, feeling the heat of his magic light the salt aflame with a noticeable bright flame that follows the circle to another pile then dips into the middle in a now dim, gray flame as the magic connects a symbol unknown. _“Cahf ah nafl mglw'nafh hh' ahor syha'h ah'legeth,” _He starts, uneasy and unsure of any pronunciation, _“llll tharanak h' orr'eog ng ahehyee lloigazath.”_

A chill burns at his skin and the flame, though no longer holding a heat, glows brighter. Mohan can feel it beckon to him to step forward. Damien can feel that itch of vomit stinging at the back of his throat. The more he reads from the passage, the more he can feel a rock settling in the pit of his gut, despite the confidence powering through his voice. Something felt wrong. Something _was_ wrong.

_“L' nog ya llll Y' ahornah ymg' mgah'n'ghft ah'n'gha'drn!"_

The flame falls and silence echoes through the forest around them. Slowly the two of them look up, holding a nervous stare betwixt them in hopes that nothing was wrong. Mohan _had_ found the right incantation… right? This was the right way to do it… **_right?_** The Oracle can barely hear his heart beating, but he could definitely feel it pounding away in his chest, ready to pop any moment.

A snap pushes the two of them away from the pit, then the squelch of something wet begins to move together. With a squint, Mohan could see it, the ebb and pulse of the pit at their feet—_it was breathing._ Then out popped, not two, but four finger-like talons free from the gore, the claws reeking of molded meat with a nauseating sweetness to go with it. The talons connected to a hand, which eventually greeted and arm that pulled a body of conjoined mass free from the hole.

It looks of bone strung together with stringy muscle and the clots of what flesh had been left behind to fuse what they had missed into a sizeable fiend and unrecognizable figure of knotted sinew and red, dripping carnage. Arm after arm after arm after hand after leg eventually emerged from the pool with a sluggish, chunky _plap_ to the mud below before the crackling noise returned with a raspy death rattle of a creature finding its lungs.

A spine is seen. Then a neck. And finally, a head of bound skulls and too many teeth. Slowly a tongue, one long, flat, and black and dripping with a dark spittle lapped at the crack in its fused jaw then dipped back into its mouth then turned to face the watching men.

“_Ymg’ uln?_” It reminds Mohan of the woman again, her voice split and waivered into hundreds of others where this one sat as several. “Ai.”

But they could understand it.

“Yes, we were the ones who beckoned you.” Mohan swallowed hard, “Our quest is to find the one who bound you and feed them into your gullet.”

There’s another collection of sickening noises and clicks that made them wince. The beast tried to turn its head, but it never felt as if it ever looked away. It still held too many open eye sockets that were still filled with the mushy remains of what were (or could have been) eyes. “_Shuggoth ot turor. Ot mgepuaaahll ah’legeth. C’ epgoka mgep. _**Bring Yellow Man. Must reclaim Man. Must devour.**”

Damien glanced down at Mohan who glanced up at him. There were a few words they couldn’t catch, but that was damning enough. Man of yellow has left them uneaten and behind, but they crave their revenge in the form of what little they could create together as a whole.

Though the hunt for the “Man of yellow” may be delayed, at least another hint comes. If not Bartholomew, a blond coated in the churning scent of maggot filled meat, it’s the liar in yellow, a man whom should be squirming from anxiety from being starved from its pit.


	16. The Man in Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mohan voice: ooooooops.

There comes that sound of metal on metal clicking together with each step that fuels a becoming knight; the Blood Paladins were to grace their new blood during the full moon that eve. As they stood, heads held high and chanting soft, the moment felt eerie to the young Oracle for he had never witnessed such a thing. There was a line of them, about six other paladins adorned in red steel, all holding a specific piece to place upon their newest, graduated brother.

Damien was to be knighted soon as the first Astani commander within a few days, but now, to celebrate, he was to officially be seen as a brother of the Blood Oath. He never expected to join so soon. He had a few more years to move up the ranks, but he had assumed they only wanted him now _because_ of the rank he had suddenly obtained, otherwise he’d still be fighting for the title of Mohan’s protector. They didn’t really want him at first, nor did they really care.

He had a title now.

And now strapped into the gauntlets and greaves of his scarless armor, he stands tall as they clasp the decorative cuirass to his torso and tighten a black cape to the clips of his pauldrons. There was relief in his eyes and a weight visibly removed from his shoulders.

Mohan remembers that peace… that sudden happiness that welled in his eyes.

Is this what it’s like to don your first suit of armor? It doesn’t matter what kind it is, be it a uniform, leathers, metal, or magic. It’s an unreal feeling, is it not? The first moment you lay first gaze on virgin armor. Almost makes you feel empowered, like a new knight being graced with their new steel and powerful goal. Mohan had never felt something like that before.

The feeling of the freshly tanned leather ‘neath his fingers left an unreal shudder in his body and a breaking smile on his lips. This was his moment, like the last one was Damien’s.

…If only he could have this moment with him, it’d be perfect.

Alas, he keeps his head up. One day, when the time is right, Damien will see the glory of that new armor when it’s beaten, worn, and deeply loved. His mind fills with the flooding thoughts of explaining each and every little scar and scuff when that day comes if he’s allowed to progress forward with the dream he’s lusted for.

It’s odd, honestly. This moment has been the fantasy he’s longed for through listening to the adventurous tales Damien would read to him when they were young. The story of a warrior running their fingers across new, fresh armor then staining it with the blood of their enemies and marring it with the deep indentations of fresh cuts of magical steel on steel, then seeing the end with new scars graced with powerful stories, failure, and success—Mohan **_craved_** just that.

One day, he’ll have stories just like that.

The trousers were heavy but spacious enough for him to bend and move freely, even with leather holsters, straps and belts wrapped tightly ‘round his thighs and the harness at his waist. The cuirass at his chest was leather with little slots for knives and daggers as well as hoops and hooks made for bigger weapons. He wore a long-sleeve black shirt beneath that and fingerless gloves that laced comforting bracers around his forearm that seemed to connect everything almost seamlessly.

In silence he watched as the seamstress noted how the protective layers of his armor worked, why smaller bits like knee guards and elbow guards to allow him to crawl and climb safely in tight spaces. His hood made to conceal his face, imbued with magic to obscure anyone looking in, but nothing could stop “any little magic tricks from shining through.”

It all excites him and draws a smile from his shielded lips. With the death that looms over the estate, this was still a sight to his escape. He can hear Jolyon sigh wistfully.

“Look at you,” he started. “After this, you don’t have to worry about what you do and where your life heads. No more of that droning behind a podium or spending hours doing something you loathe. I want to see you strive, Mohan. You deserve this and I will ensure you are built into a grand Master Thief… Even if you fail this fight, you’ll fail many, many more. But as you move forward, you’ll learn.”

Mohan shimmies his hood from his head and pulls the scarf from his mouth, “I don’t have to keep preaching?”

“That’s the hope, isn’t it?”

“More of a dream as of late…”

“Oh, I know.” He’s pacing the room now, grabbing a few weapons that graced the seamstress’ cutting table and slotting them into the holsters they belonged to. There are knives at his thighs and a couple daggers at his calves. There are needles, throwing knives, and a few empty vials Mohan could only assume were for potions and poisons. “You will leave tomorrow night rather than tomorrow morning. It’ll give you time to settle into your armor alone. By time you make it into the city will be sunrise. What you do then is up to you. There is no time limit. You can hunt them down like dogs, if you please.”

The chain in his hand is new, the orb weight, at the end, is fresh and unscathed but shining from the light above. “What will you tell Damien and Kataleya?”

“That, tomorrow evening, you will be removed safely from the estate and left with Emmeline as your temporary guard. Either she’ll keep you roaming the city to comfortably settle yourself socially or you two will be living quietly within the monastery until I beckon your return.”

“So, dropping me in the monastery is the more believable option here.”

“You never know. Emmeline has friends outside the estate, best you make some friends yourself.” Jolyon shrugs, “You should be more social. It’s good for your health.”

A knock at the door brings a guard stepping into the room. He pays no mind to Mohan’s bout of dress up in the back of the room, yet instead focuses entirely on the King himself. He doesn’t seem to know _what_ he’s going to say. He stutters, “Prince Bartholomew says he’s ready to speak with Oracle Ívarr… alone… As soon as possible. He says it’s very important.”

“Why are you telling me this and not _him?_”

The guard shakes his head, “I don’t mean to be rude. I’m worried. I’ve worked for his family for years and to see him so… erratic? I don’t like it. He’s preaching of a gospel we don’t have, staying up until his body shuts down for him, speaks of Oracle Vollan as if he’s going to marry her—even with the guard issued to us, he _threatens_ them. It looks as if he’s unsure of everything and it makes us even more paranoid.”

Jolyon gives a noise of reassurance and Mohan sighs. “He has little time today, but he _will_ be there. I assume you know where the sanctuary is?” The bodyguard nods. “He’ll be with you shortly.” As the guard leaves and the closes with an audible click, the King crosses his arms, “We’ll continue this later, but **_I_** want to know everything he tells you.”

\----

The stragglers in the sanctuary greet him on arrival. A few bow as they leave, and others capture his attention for a silent blessing before following suit. For once, the room isn’t as empty as either of them would want and it worries Mohan. As regulars shuffle their way into the depths of the garden’s shrines, others are sat within the pews, heads low and hands clasped.

But how to deal with Bartholomew?

Not even a couple days ago he was fresh face—or as fresh as his makeup would allow. He carried a smile broad and a glow bright that charmed the residents of the estate to flock to him with entranced eyes and open arms. In the beginning, he didn’t need much to sway any of them. He was the breath of fresh foreign air that everyone wanted to see. The supposed unity of Kingdoms nations apart during war.

However now? The Prince looks rough. He stands shaking and pale like a man awaiting his next high. His hair is frazzled and the lustrous curl has fallen. He’s not the blond beauty that walked through those estate doors with powdered skin and plump red lips, that’s for sure. There was no makeup hiding those flaws now.

He takes a step forward and Mohan raises a finger to hush him and another subtle gesture to pull him to the back of the sanctuary. There’s an office in the back, one private and closed off from the wandering gaze of onlookers and tuned ears of eavesdroppers. Mohan knew people would focus on the ordeals of a shaken Prince. What could he be so worried about? What has demolished that bright beauty of his to this broken sight? Could be a scandal. Could be drugs. Who knows!

As he guides the Prince into the room, he watches as the guards take their position at the entrance, that worried guise still stained on the face of the man he spoke to earlier. But what can you do when you know the truth but unsure of how to alert the men sent to protect him? What’s going to happen when they find out they _may_ have to be the ones who return his corpse back to his homeland.

Oh, Mohan’s not ready for that.

“You know… don’t you? How do you know?” Bartholomew’s voice is low but quaking with every other word.

“How do I know about the people you’ve killed?”

His lips part and his head shakes, “I… I have killed no one.” He’s silent, staring at the Oracle who crosses his arms, “You don’t understand—_I_ haven’t… that beast **_has._**”

“I believe you,” Mohan replies. “Tell me about the beast.”

He uncomfortably drags his nails down his arms, bring dark red lines to follow with an uneasy shudder to follow. “I saw _her_. _She_ gave me this beast and told me it was a gift. Then… men came to my home, declaring that monsters be cleansed of our country—we don’t _have_ monsters as your people do. Our population is **_human!_** Magic is weak and rare… Then I realized they meant **me. _I_** was the monster.”

“You are not a monster. This can be fixed.”

“So, you say. It’s been like this for months because of that woman.”

Mohan crosses his arms, “Who is _she_?”

“That woman who arrived yesterday… but she didn’t look like _that._”

“Go on. Tell me what she looked like.”

“No marking,” he started touching his bottom lip, “there was a scar there. There were… flowers growing out of her scars and bones stitched into her skin like thorns. But the face was the same. I won’t blame you if you _don’t_ believe me… but I don’t want this anymore.”

“Tell me what happens when you can’t… _control_ this beast.”

Bartholomew seems to be shivering, hunched over and coughing for a spell before standing back upright, “I black out. I get this… urge, like I’m hungry… then come morn, I’m covered in blood… but you found its feeding hole. What did you do? It’s not happy.”

“I’ve done nothing,” an obvious lie, but will the Prince accept it?

“Stop **lying** to me!” No. He won’t. “It knew something was meddling. Something is trying to actively stop it and it feels like it’s **_eating_** me.”

That’s not good.

“What can I do to quell it until I can properly help you?”

“Feed it or banish it…” There’s another shuddered sigh, “But, Heaven’s above, please don’t let it kill me. I’m not ready to die.”

_Please,_ he whispers over and over again. Mohan’s not quite sure what to do. If he can save the man’s life, he will. If he can rid him free of that disgusting creature that festers deep within his being, he will… but now things come full circle—_the grimoire._ That’s it. She wanted the beast eradicated, but even then? She never said to kill him.

His cure is in that book.

“I need a couple days. Can you hold that long?”

Bartholomew does not blink for a little too long. His stare is wide and vacant, that when he blinks it almost surprises Mohan. “I can try. Do you think there is anyone else I can trust to help?”

“Of course. You just must give us time. Keep yourself calm. I know how you feel about her, but when you feel your body flaring report directly to Oracle Vollan. She will understand. Please get some rest. I’ll ask her to check on you in the morning.”

A slow rock forward, then a noticeable quiet, “Okay,” and the Prince, like a ghost, silently makes his way out of the office.

* * *

Jolyon demanded to know the truth if the Prince was a key factor in all of this, but now he feels more cautious than he had before. He expected a monster, one rabid and frothing with blinding anger. He’s more excited about what this could have been than anything else… but then again, that monster they summoned did still lurk in the pit waiting for its meal.

“He’s possessed,” Mohan starts, “He definitely needs to be on a permanent watch, and you need to get some type of information out to his family, _if_ they are still alive. He didn’t tell me if they were, he just spoke of how men showed up to eradicate a monster.”

Kataleya’s head is in her hands, leaned forward with her elbows in her thighs, “Sounds like Sihannak’s hunters are spreading to allied nations… but that doesn’t explain the skinwalker. They wouldn’t start using dark-beasts if they don’t care for magical folk… would they?”

Mohan doesn’t know how to answer that one. “With the war still heavy in the north, maybe? Use what you can. Get them to trust you. Then slaughter them at the end?” He’s leaning against the King’s desk now, “Either way, he wants that skinwalker _out._”

Jolyon doesn’t want to hear that. He wants to hear the tried and true “I did it,” so he could burn the creature guilt free. “And then what?”

Mohan gives a half-assed shrug, “I… don’t know. I told him to wait. We can help him. Keep him alive and prevent _another_ war. He is willing to try as long as he can live in the end.”

“Actually,” Kataleya’s brows rise, “we can do that, especially if you have any prisoners awaiting the guillotine?” She’s nodding now, “They could hold its appetite until we find the proper cure to separate parasite from host without killing the Prince as Mohan requested.”

The King sighs. This isn’t how he wanted it to end for the monster in his home, but safety comes first and unification means more than one royal death. “I’d suppose that’d be the way.” Jolyon gives Mohan an inward glance then stands up from his desk, “Doing that I must remove Mohan from the premises. I’ll have him with Emmeline until it’s safe to return him.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’d rather this investigation be done quickly, and if I need to bring in critical cases to… feed it… I’d rather know he’s safe than here if anything goes awry.”

“Why not leave me with Damien,” Mohan speaks up. Jolyon frowns. “I’d… rather be with him.”

“I need him here. He’s the best I have in terms of a proper paladin. He can clear out the rest of the gunk.”

Kataleya hums. Does she want death to come as Jolyon would or does she seek proper justice for a corrupted soul? “He’s right.” She does not sound as if she wants to agree with him. “You need to be gone before we start parading prisoners through. If chaos happens, I’d rather you not be here. The Prince will not die, but that beast will be smothered. It’s gonna take some time.”

“Well, you’ve got two days,” he doesn’t mean to be abrupt, but there is a time limit. Mohan did what he could and convincing her for him to leave was easier than he assumed. But now?

That grimoire looms over his head as a tantalizing treat. He _must_ have it.


	17. Checks and Balances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now, we tune in to the silent music of mohan panicking.

The day is here… isn’t it?

He’s not ready.

Sleep never came to rest the Oracle’s nerves. He’s too wound up to sleep and he knew he had to be back with Jolyon just a few hours before the afternoon comes. He said it was to ensure that Mohan could properly use the equipment he had been training with. Mohan sits nervous at the edge of his bed, legs shaking and mind wild. Makes him want to wake Damien for advice.

How _do_ soldiers do it? He’s spent time with them, of course, but when battle starts, they’re ready. They jump out of bed and flimsily throw on what armor they can and rush out with weapons ready. There was no pep talk needed. Some of them didn’t even care for protection, they simply knew they _had_ to fight. But how do they shake that first battle? How do they handle that first panic of failure?

_Breathe in… _

They just… suck it up, don’t they? That’s what he has to do.

_Breathe out…_

He needs to meet up with Jolyon and do it just the same. Suck it up. Breathe. Push forward. You can’t succeed when you’re stressing yourself out like this. Just repeat your lessons and remember your truths. And that’s all he _can_ do… even though his mind is still skeptical.

It takes time for him to get dressed properly. Mohan still doesn’t quite understand the quick methods of tightening the leather straps ‘round his thigh or ensuring that gloves fit properly, and the pouches feel... off. He’s sure the leather is a little too tight around his chest, but it’s mostly his fault. His hair doesn’t want to comply with his messily made bun that he just lets the rest fall.

It feels like chaos at the beginning, but what can you do?

There are a few guards between his quarters and the blacksmith’s forge. All of them didn’t seem to care about Mohan and his new set of armor. In truth, they didn’t seem to look his way. Felt odd, yes, but it got him thinking. This is the room that starts your journey. This is where the adventurer in all those ridiculous stories Damien read to him would start with a broken knife and a hopeful look to the end.

But he knew better than that.

In this forge it smelled of old charcoal, sweat, and heated metal that made his nose burn. It sat almost unreal to him, like a smoke-filled dream covered in bad decisions and soot. Was anything at the end of this worthwhile? Of course. He couldn’t be too upset with the idea that at the end, it was simply the lessons he had learned from the Versaillian General—_you are your own weapon._ He made sure to drill that over and over into Mohan’s head with the idea that he’d one day see a fight that depended on his win.

A sword’s sentience is to mentally connect with the body that wields it. It knows when to protect. It knows when to deflect. And It definitely knows when to kill. Whether the blood that fuels it is innocent or not depends on the mentality of the host. This is why most bond with their weaponry. They name it. They give these weapons of death personalities and lives as to give reason of why it craves for blood and gore the same as any marauder.

Any who hold faith in their ability would never let their blade thirst for the blood of innocents but crave the souls of those who are evil. Weapons are used to slay monsters, but never raised against the **skin** of an innocent unless absolutely necessary. And even then? Your sword, your blade, your bow—must never crave for their life.

Those weapons are sat before him again—a list of them, this time. Jolyon had told him to choose whichever ones he preferred to use. There’s a lot. They make his hands itch. Mohan wants to run his fingers along the freshly made steel. If he chooses some of these weapons, they’re his. But happens to the rest? He could pocket them. He could properly request to keep them… but where’s the fun in that?

His lips scrunch and he lifts the chain of the weapon he was given earlier. The weight of the ball bearing is distracting. It’s heavier than what he expected, but still lovely to see. As he travels down the chain, he notices another weapon towards the end—a curved blade with a hide-bound hilt. It’s different, but definitely seems to be something he’d be willing to learn on the fly or with time. There are blades, some short, some long, some far bigger than anything he’d ever need. Others are needle like, skinny, long, tiny, and fat. Where does he start? What do all of them mean? _What do they do?_

His hands itch again.

“My idea was to allow you to work your own loadout of what you feel naturally comfortable with, but we were continuously interrupted.” Jolyon placed his hand on the—slightly—wobbly table, “Take what you feel would be natural to _you._ Use them and see how they feel in your hands, but please be careful.”

“Why do I have to be careful?” He picks up a tiny knife. The hilt of it is no bigger than his pinky and the blade is sharp, flat, and rounded at the bottom. It smells of berries.

“Some are made of properly forged oxynel. Poisonous but discreet.”

Mohan looks up from the small knife with a frown, “What is the poison going to do? Give me superpowers?”

“All I’m saying is that it can stain your hands if you hold them for too long, jackass.” He’s tucking a few of those knives into the small holsters at his arms with gloved fingers. Unlike the two of them, it’s not something he can handle without ailment nor does he hold the immunity of an Oracle or a Dwarf. “I want you to succeed. I want you to walk out of that vault a changed man.” Jolyon’s gaze is heavy. He’s held this conversation with champions prior, but none of them held a level of secrecy like Mohan does. They were free to run about and flaunt their title to anyone who’d listen… but Mohan’s was a test. His was to see if this was the life he truly wanted.

When he’s ready, he can speak up.

“What happens when I eradicate them like you asked? What is the point of killing all of them?”

Jolyon is still setting Mohan up with the smaller weapons—a couple daggers here and there, a short blade long enough to rest at the length of his forearm, and the ball bearings he found himself enticed to. “There will be an election, actually. Though the Market is only run through my lands, we keep things orderly. There will be a set of leaders to run branches. All legally. All done with consent. No more hard drugs, no more trafficking.”

“This sounds a bit drastic if all of this was already happening.”

He steps back with a sigh, “It sounds like that to an outsider, but I have checks and balances. And when someone breaks that flow—it usually doesn’t end in death. But when you’re killing my people, _enslaving_ them for your own sick, sexual pleasure, feeding them drugs to not only destroy their minds but leave them dead in the puddle of their own blood and spit? Then it becomes a life for a life.” Brown fingers trail the fresh steel of one of the longer swords, often flicking it to hear the metal thunk of his middle finger popping against it. “Every life they take, strikes another life I take from them.”

“And you couldn’t arrest them?”

“That would defeat the purpose of the Market. Guards are not allowed down there and if I show up that’s when it gets messy. My agents could get spotted. I could be in danger. Who knows?” Jolyon shrugs, “The purpose of the Market is anonymity. When you get down there, you’ll understand. Keep your hood up at all times while you’re down there. You cannot allow anyone to notice you as anything _but_ one of them.” He pats Mohan’s head and his hand lingers for a moment, “I hired the best to make this set for you. Enjoy it. Let your magic instill fear inside that vault. But if you’re loud? Make the Market think you’re evil in the shadows.”

The weight of that sword balances the distribution across his body. The chain may jingle and with every little noise, but his body feels… _right,_ if he could say that. Mohan didn’t feel as if he were carrying too much nor did he feel as if things were disproportionate to his figure. He wasn’t built like Jolyon or Damien where they were walls of muscle and hard strength. He was thinner in comparison with the arms of a young farmhand… to an extent that is. The past few years with Jolyon and the few months he had spent with Calvet in Versailé put muscle on stick arms and weight to what was once nothing but a shambling skeleton.

Mohan could fully attest that before all of this, he definitely didn’t _look_ like the part at the beginning, nor was he strong enough to swing a sword properly without flying off with it. But he knew “basics.” He knew how to carry through on a punch, he could dodge a hit, and he could absolutely use his magic in a fist fight. Yet, that was never enough. He couldn’t simply depend on his magic every time, now could he?

And, of course, Jolyon thought of that. As he adjusted Mohan’s also leather gauntlets, he fixed the wraps at his fingers, pulling the loaded knuckles properly over his hands then sliding finger-less gloves over the wraps. If he were to get into a fight, at least he’d have an advantage with the knuckle dusters hidden in his gloves and the heavy boots to keep him grounded.

The King steps back for moment to revel in the sight of his godson. The boy doesn’t carry himself like an assassin or a thief, but eventually he will. Mohan stands with a bit of a slouch and a lost stare; however, it’ll be rectified. It’s not something he thought would be perfect on the first go, no. He’s sent many a soldier just like him out into wars they were never properly ready for and they all came back straightened, focused, and angry. He doesn’t want that for Mohan, no… no. He wants determination to radiate from him when he returns. He wants to see that boy with a hardened stare and hungry hands, because that’s how you craft a Master Thief.

You make them crave the adventure. You make them lust for the treasure they can’t carry. You make them hunger for the thrill of getting caught. You ensure those hands keep working when the Master doesn’t.

Jolyon leans forward, hands pressed at the wobbly table. A few of the weapons shifted and the King simply sighs. To Mohan he’s putting a lot on the table (no pun intended, for once) with hopes that he would return successful. What was the lie to be held if Mohan was caught? How much blood would be shed if he had to fight his way out loudly and proudly?

“I can do this,” Mohan finally spoke, “you just have to believe in me.”

“I _do_ believe in you, son.” His eye twitched, “**_I_** made your mother who she is now. Calvet and I tried to do the same with you without the… emotional turmoil held. I **build** champions of all sorts and I would not allow you leave for this endeavor if I assumed you weren’t ready.”

“Then let me prove it on my own.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Here.” There’s a pack at Jolyon’s hip. With a click, he removes two more little blades that he slips into Mohan’s hands. They come with curved hilts to tuck into his fist and the blade itself holds a base skinny enough to fit between his fingers and keep the weapon exposed. “These, shockingly, used to be mine. I gave them to your mother, and she told me it was too messy for her.” He chuckles, “I want you to use them when you can. Test them and see how you like them. Place them where you please for easy access because you never know when you need a swift, deadly hit.”

“Can I modify them before I go?”

“With what?”

“Runes,” Mohan stares down at the little blade, “I’d rather have them easy to take out than have to dig for them… but I don’t want to ruin them.”

“Of course. Do what you please to _your_ weapons. Just…” Jolyon’s silent, peeling off the gloves he wore to sit them aside. “I don’t know what advice to give here, honestly. Just… kill’em. Do what you have to. Be as brutal as you want to be.”

_Let them suffer._

There’s a lot on his plate with this agenda from the King, but someone has to do it. Someone with an unfamiliar face traversing an unfamiliar area with little to no actual plan. Get in. Get out. That’s all he had with this idea of breaking into a criminal vault alone. And with Emmeline still following close behind, the doubts circle in his head once more reeking with the fear of failure. If they get caught, she could die. If word gets out that the King has interfered in underground operations, there could be a revolt. It’s strange, but he can’t stop deals with those willing to work alongside him. He can only purge the misbehaving miscreants through passed word from their united congress.

Mohan doesn’t care for it, but law is law and the Ryja have indeed broken an universal law.

He huffs. Even after Jolyon’s long gone, Mohan’s still in the forge with the ever-working blacksmith. He has a few hours to kill before he disappears into the city and the Master Smith has given him a moment to teach him a skill he’s taught Champions and Knights alike. For those without magic, it was simple: learn to mold your own steel and it could be branded how one pleased. For those with magic came another option. Of course, they could learn to smithy, anyone could, or they could find one they trusted most and brand their weapons after creation. All they needed was a small, metal chisel. At first it came across ridiculous. A chisel? Their weapons weren’t stone—so why a chisel?

For detailing.

Their magic could channel heat into the metals of their weapons to soften and then they could safely dig what they pleased into the supple flesh of their tools without damaging it, drop it into water, and be greeted with success. There was failure in this technique, yes. Do it for too long and you could harm the weapon. But it’s about precision and patience.

And Mohan had patience. He’d poke his fingers every so often as he scribbled runes onto the weapons he had been gifted, but that came with the technique. Yet, even then, in that hot room of clanking metal, his mind is still racing with what ifs and the looming threat of dread that lurks in the distance, watching, waiting from its pit with its maw sharp and hungry for the “Man of Yellow.” Almost makes him regret digging through it.

But, dwelling on regrets won’t push him forward, will it? The longer he focuses on what could go wrong rather than what could succeed instead will simply hinder him in the end. He could explain the vengeful pit beast when the time comes, however now, as he carves the lasting runes into the ball bearing, Mohan realizes one simple thing while watching the blacksmith work: if you let your guard down, for even a second, that’s when the end comes and the failure begins.

There’s no place for thoughts like this, therefore, once he’s in, the only option of conversation ends with a strike that spills tainted blood. And that’s how this shall be won.


	18. The Blade of the Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> burnout hit me a bit this month and last month and i apologize on the sporadic mess. a couple chapters probably might feel a little rushed, but i'll eventually go back and tidy them up. but that's the fun of drafting with a web novel. :p
> 
> update 08/2020: so i came back to tidy up... EVERYTHING SO FAR.

They left late that afternoon. It was better that way. No guards stepped in their way. No complaint from Damien ever came. Bartholomew, for the first time since last night, looked clear—_exhausted,_ but not as horrible as he had the night before. They at least have time. That’s good. The growing worry of that pit and its hungry resident could come later… that is, if no one else bothers it. At least the walk to the city wasn’t horrible and the weather—still raining, very quiet. Seemed that Emmeline didn’t quite want to chat on the way out of the King’s estate; Mohan was fine with that.

For once, he doesn’t quite _hate_ where he is. He’s waved his way through large cities with the feeling of dread in his chest and exhaustion in his soul with the idea of people crowding him for a touch, a glimpse, and often times a prayer as they decorated him with charms and swarmed him with endless claustrophobic crowds, but for once—no one knew, nor did they care who he was. In a city of warriors, Mohan was simply one of them.

Buildings are high here, a few stories tall, but never higher than the church itself or the building of parliament, but from the few stories Emmeline had spoken of on their journey into the heart of the city, this wasn’t even the start. The city lived mostly underground. Tunnels stretched for miles on end, connecting to other buildings and other companies in solidarity of growing business and trade amongst themselves. Guilds were always visible. They promoted themselves loudly above ground with pamphlets and smiles that it made Mohan wary, but citizens excited. They could _be_ someone here—even if it meant never actually gaining the title from the guild.

If you’re not an assassin, merchant, mercenary, or a hitman, you were still someone to these guilds. They saw your dedication with hopeful intent that you wouldn’t turn your back on the family you joined. It’s… different. Mohan had assumed that you went to them on bended knee, begging for a job or it was something you fell into by family, never by choice. However, here, within the eastern kingdom of Dómrien, it was done with respect. Paperwork had to be done. Coin had to be distributed properly. Pirates had to be registered. No one here had a job illegal, unless you made it illegal.

And that’s what brought them out—the new leaders of the Black Market.

Most leaders of the black market are guild leaders and a few members of parliament trying to scrounge up an extra bit of money doing what other lands found demeaning and illicit. They traded outside of the kingdom as they made their way through the nation on bounties and quests from the hired hand, but… sometimes it simply wasn’t enough. With the war raging in the middle of their homeland, money almost ran thin… but doctors needed fresh body parts. They needed uncorrupted blood, working hearts, healthy lungs, undamaged eyes… Why worry about getting parts when you could just hire traders to hit the death pits during the body clean up in the wilds? Teach them how to do an autopsy, give them a decent necromancer, and the living would continue living with the strength of a dead warrior.

Yet, these leaders would bring those who felt as if they made _too much_ money. It brought battles inside of their maintained community. It let loose a monstrous hole of death and fury that for a while, it became difficult to find someone to take the lead… But it didn’t stop the Ryja. No one claimed positions, so they took them. One by one, slowly but surely. And soon, bodies stopped dropping. Of course, it made the guild leaders question. However, it did catch the attention of the King himself.

“In here. We’ll eat before we go crawling into the Ryja tunnels. Mostly so we can figure out a plan just in case of emergency.”

The building Emmeline led him into was stunning to look at. In a city filled with warriors and pseudo-criminals, your imagination runs wild of what ifs and what abouts, until you actually _see_ it. The city, itself, was clean. Buildings and homes were mighty and large, and very rarely, small. Each guild held a flair that denoted it as a family rather than a clan of whomever, and this one was _too_ nice. It was a rather large building flanked by two massive marble statues of Mother Kularis and a faceless set of armor with a crown matching hers only noted as “The Being of Sun.” As they made their way up the stone path, they greeted a porch made of wood, crawling with people minding their business in every little space given. Some looked up from books or their board games and gave Emmeline a quiet “Hello,” but the rest seem to not even notice them.

“Now what brings you back home?” She’s a taller woman, bulky and made like a machine of muscle and stone. There are runes pained at her cheek and a streak of black across her eyes. “Did you miss us?”

“A little bit, but I mostly came for a quick snack and then I’m off to work.”

The woman smiles then glances at the distracted Oracle, “You got locked with an apprentice?”

“Honestly, I’d rather have an apprentice.” She taps at Mohan’s arm, “Introduce yourself. We’re safe here. They won’t out you.”

Dropping his hood, Mohan turns to the woman with hand extended, “Mohan,” he speaks, “it’s a pleasure.”

She stares at him for a moment one she grabs his hand and pulls him close with a yank, “You a Redhawke?”

“A what?” Emmeline questions, but Mohan nods.

“Interesting. Thought I’d never see another one.” She shakes his hand firmly and slaps his arm, “Welcome to the family.”

Once she’s gone, Emmeline’s turned back to him with a curious stare before heading off into a vague direction with a gesture for him to follow. Nevertheless, he’s more confused than he was entering the building. He’d be a Redhawke by blood, but not by name. To hear someone mention a name only his siblings hold is odd… Unless one of his brothers had been through the city. Then again, that thought could only bring either worry or praise.

Please let it be praise.

Even then, he’s mindlessly wandered quietly behind Emmeline trying to piece together the meeting. Why single him out if not to _greet_ an Oracle? She knew Emmeline. She could have just held a tight conversation with her and lunch could be had, but now? Now he’s worried.

“So,” she starts, “Redhawke?”

“It’s my mother’s surname. I and a couple of my siblings have my father’s.”

“Do you get these confusions a lot—” She catches eye contact with him. He squints. “I realized what I was asking as I asked it… _hush._”

“I mean… maybe when I was a kid.”

There’s a nod before she pauses for a moment to turn to him, “How do you actually want to do this?”

He didn’t think that far. He assumed there wasn’t really a plan. Are there plans with things like this… for _thieves_ that is? An assassin has to find the right moment and the right time, don’t they? Thieves just… wing it? Or that’s the hope… “Rush it and see what happens?”

“I don’t think that’s wise.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“This isn’t supposed to be fun. This is a job, Mohan. People could die.”

“Uh… _Yeah_. That’s the thrilling part. You can do whatever it is you’re trained to do; _I_ want to figure out how to get to the vault completely blind.”

Emmeline has long stopped now. She’s found a small table in the back of mess hall that sits against one of the largest windows. As an outsider, this was a lavished sight. He could see the city from this window and how it thrived quietly in the distance with beckoning calls to food stands and criers handing out papers. She sighs, “You don’t have a map… do you?”

“I was never given one, no.”

“Don’t say that to me, Mohan…”

“I mean, from what I’ve recently learned of the city this can only mean two things: it’s underground or as far above us as it possibly can be. Therefore, we check every room for a secret. No—we check the master bed or head office for a secret room.”

“That’s smart for someone without a map.” Emmeline snorts, “Anyway. What is… uh… going on between you and that paladin?”

He frowns. What exactly was she looking for in an answer here? “Nothing?”

“I don’t believe that.” She takes a short sip of her water, “I heard he’s been rooming in your quarters.”

“Oh, yes. I have to keep in mind this isn’t common for you rich, fancy folk—I grew up with six siblings and him. We _all_ had to share a room and sometimes a bed. It’s very common.” He nods, “Sharing a bed with Damien is like sleeping with a teddy bear that snores very lightly.”

Silence came between the two of them, aside from the occasional crunch of an apple’s skin snapping between their teeth. Yet, he’s focused on the quietness of it all. He had just about gotten used to the anxiety inducing crowds that’d swarm around him, their fingers in his hair and their body heat uncomfortably warm around him as they pressed in close. To have the space to move and the air to breathe without someone in his face with gritty fingers clawing at his hands is refreshing.

“I still can’t get over it.”

“About Damien?”

“Yes! So many heartbroken maids so hurt watching him come out of your room disheveled and exhausted. The filth from those women!”

“Oh, the disappointment they are not expecting—I don’t think that man has ever kissed a woman.” He takes a drink, but briefly speaks into his cup, “But if they want a man who’ll drool into their hair, he’s the man for the job.”

For once, they share a moment of laughter. The assassin finds herself dimming down to a gentle smile as she turns to the eating man at her side. He’s timid in his movements, poking away at the salad in front of him. “Do you doubt that we’ll succeed here?”

“If I doubt us then we won’t succeed.”

“But if you overestimate, we’ll fail.” Another mouthful of fresh greens and she gives him another look, “Take it like this—if you’ve ever been in a fight, how did you win?”

“Through failure and anger and I doubt you want either of those to be the end result of this.”

“Anger?”

“Mostly frustration. The first fight stemmed from a challenge from a champion. His personality made me hate him. But the first fight was a loss then it was eight consecutive defeats from him… yet something… Something in me was just _furious._”

“Did you have someone to teach you to fight?”

“Not how to swordfight, no. We have Vai’dyn refugees, however. They taught me how to fight.” It was a deal, actually. In exchange for helping them find land within the forest, they made themselves a hamlet as an allied home to Crystalheim. They saw nothing special in Mohan aside from a priest for a religion they didn’t practice. It brought a connection to them, one that strengthened learning and kinship among uncommon blood. “With General Calvet and Jolyon, I can only do better from here.”

The mess hall seems to ebb and flow with new faces as many finish meals and others come in to converse. It’s a massive room aside from the lobby. Tables line the walls and fill the middle with wooden benches flanked on each side. Assassins and guild members alike sit across from each other with boisterous laughter and large tankards of who knows what. A lovely sight, yes. It brings a sight of comfort to Mohan, but it still felt as if every set of eyes in the room were focused on him.

No, they were.

“Oh no…” Emmeline whispers with a mouth full of apples. She stands, hands extended to the approaching man, “Thorinth, I can’t have your people crowding him--”

It’s a man this time that steps up to them. He’s just as tall as the woman he met earlier but darker skinned and far older. An elf, this one was. The man, Thorinth, looked to be a veteran assassin. He was covered in scars, long and short, an ear was chipped, and his nose was crooked, but he seemed to keep a neutral kind appearance. But, before Emmeline could push he and his nosy crowd away, he holds up a hand, “Redhawke, it is more than a pleasure to have you here.”

“Ívarr,” Mohan corrected, “that is _my_ name.”

“But still a Redhawke in blood, Lord Oracle.” He pulls his other hand free from behind his back and holds a blade between them, one about as long as his arm and fat in body, at the end sits a ribbon of blue wrapped around its leather-bound hilt and tied into the trinkets and bells that sit at the very end. Down the steel of the blade is that holy script he knew all too well that simply read, “Knight of Dawn.” But what does he do with it? “This belongs to you.”

Mohan chuckles uneasily, “I… don’t think so.”

“Ayasha was treasured here. She was my mentor and my Captain. I keep this guild living in her name.”

“My mother is not dead, sir.”

“Neither is her legacy, but she wants none of her old uniforms and weapons, which I understood once she expanded her family.” Thorinth sheathed the blade, the casing just as blue as the ribbon with little golden stars and a sun reaching the bottom. He turns the hilt to him once again, “I’d rather this be in your hands. I know she’d want the same.”

There’s more to this, isn’t it? However, Mohan knows better to take such a weapon that holds the key of _warriors_ beginning their path… but at the same time, though he is blood and proud of it, he knows his mother more than the room around him—if that blade ends up in the hands of **_thief, _**the world crumbles. Not in a literal sense, but close enough. There’s a grin given from Thorinth here as he grabs the blade’s sheath. Something here felt familiar… like he’s seen it before.

He has.

“Why are you giving this to me when you could have gifted this to her eldest?”

“Better to give it to someone following in her steps. Stand up straight, Redhawke. Head up, now.”

He straightens, albeit uncomfortably, “I’m not following behind my mother.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. From what I know, her eldest is the Governor of Crystalheim. She wouldn’t need a blade, would she? You could always gift it to her. But for now,” The older man stands tall, head up and gaze still focused on Mohan, “do you accept the blade of the bear?”

Mohan squints, “No.” He could see the leader’s head tilt, “I am **_not_** following after my mother.”

The blade he held in his hands was beautiful, but painfully familiar. There’s a matching one—a longsword—that sat on display back in their home. It was an important blade that had blessed her students and her children as they stepped forward into positions of power. One of his brothers, Elli, and their eldest sister, Valencia, had gone through this with his mother. She gave the two of them their first clan blade with pride while their father complained for ages.

These were blade to never be used in battle again. Those were her words all of his siblings knew.

He turns the hilt back to Thorinth, “Here me out: I refuse to break my promise to her. I’m not worthy enough for this blade yet, however, I do know it can be given to _her_ godson and she would be proud for it to be in his hands.” The veteran assassin nods and takes the blade back with a smile and Mohan lets go of that held breath. “When my quest is finished, I’d like her armors and weapons to take home to her.”

“Of course, I’ll have it packed and ready.” He chuckles, “And I’ll make sure the King believes it’s a gift and not us meeting. I’m sure he told you to keep your head down?”

“He did.”

“It’s best you _don’t _tell me what your quest is, but allow me to… grant you some fireworks, at least?”

“I’d rather have that.”

When Thorinth’s back is turned, Mohan’s body slumps forward. He expected the worst out of that. He expected having to take an oath he cared nothing for. That blade came with a promise meant for solders readying to take in souls in time of war or **_be_** the soul going into war. For the blade of the Bear, he knew most of those assassins that stood in that room had stood devoted with variant versions of that oath they all spoke on bended knee as they saw different versions of that sword rested upon their soldier. Nevertheless, though he had not uttered those words, he knew it was a start to having an ally where he needs it most. The more he’d show his face around the guild, the more people would be inclined to help when he needed it most when it was time for him to—_hopefully—_chase creating a guild himself.

His stomach turned. Should he had taken the oath? Damien had turned it down when he enlisted, but, his brother, Elli, was only sixteen when he saw his mother for the first time in the uniform that put terror in the hearts of tens of hundreds. That was their sight of what the ceremony was to prove yourself worthy. Mohan was nothing like them. He had not skinned the corpse of an Il’Shid he killed himself, nor had he mimicked his mother in the fur she wore at her shoulders was that of a fresh hunt with the blood ran down her shoulders and fleshy chunks still fell free from the fur of the dead beast. It was to be properly tanned and cleaned when he was ready to take his place as a soldier within the Imperial military. Something Mohan simply wasn’t ready to do.

Seeing the blood and paint stained at her cheeks and the feathers that decorated her ponytail, this was the sight he was to become, following in the footsteps of the Redhawke clan and ensuring their name still instilled a horror among the commonfolk without ever uttering a singular sound. In battle, no one was to ever see you sweat. A tear meant weakness. A flinch meant death. Yet, away from the hordes of the dying and away from the fight, your heart was to remain pure and accepting.

That was the code of the Bear—the oath of the Redhawke. One Mohan’s mother reveled in with her children and her godson. This was her blessing of protection to the warriors her children became to be when they saw themselves ready.

Mohan knows he’ll never take that pledge… never thought it would be offered to him without her being there to bitch and moan about why she retired and hung up the oath in the first place… Maybe she’ll be the first person he tells when this is all over and he can muster up the courage to tell her what he’s always wanted. To be “knighted,” so to speak, by Champion Redhawke.

To allow her to know that her son was never a coward.


	19. A Snake's Confidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it feels like at this point, mohan is just shrugging loudly at every situation and hoping something works.

A warning was placed on them once they began to leave the Guild of Royal Assassins: past the merchant’s guild and the trading district, hope was long gone. Families had been rendered into wandering refugees and others into vengeful souls on that teetering point of rebellion… but, positively, not against the King. The way Thorinth put it was, “they’re getting desperate _for_ his help, but don’t want him to interfere.”

Didn’t make sense to Mohan.

The Dòmrien people led legends for centuries. They, alongside the Imperial city, brought bard tales for hours to come without ever repeating. Stories bled into one another, of course, but it stemmed from how close warriors came as they fought shoulder to shoulder until the very end. From how other countries saw them, they were monsters—ruthless, bloody, loud… but devout to their home. So why? Had they been slapped down by their own pride that they refuse help when they need it most?

It’s interesting.

Mohan shouldn’t be the one rescuing these people. They ought to be doing it for themselves to feel that glory burning at their soles of their feet. They should be leveling out the land before them, razing what had been tainted into the dirt so they could rise even more furious.

“Won’t happen though,” Thorinth said. “For once, they don’t know what to do. Although, I’m not saying they are in need of a very loud push forward. Smoking out the tunnels would be a start…?”

He places a pouch in front of Mohan. In that pouch the veteran sits before them sits a handful of round bottles holding a couple liquids-- one red and the other purple. All of them are viscous, a glittering swirl that adds a hint of another color to all of them. The smaller of the vials were new to him, but he knew the little, fat, red one. They call them Fyreballs. Tiny. Non-discreet. Excruciatingly dangerous. The size of them were something to overlook, but Mohan’s dealt with them more than he should—for science’s sake, of course… Except one time was for safety. Two of them could bring about a fire unimaginable.

Its magical heat was to smoke out enemies and burn away the sins of any transgressor… and anyone else caught in the splash back. Though the fire could eat away at anything placed before it, eventually it’ll end on its own after just a few unstable hours. Which was the point, mostly. Let them lose it all so they could feel the pain they inflicted on everyone else. It’s the motto Apothicaries chuckle when they sell it as “frowned upon” goods.

But there’s only two little dark bottles that he also places into the pouch. They swirl with a blue and purple color in black ink that Mohan can’t help but ask about that one.

“I told you. It’s for when you think these people need a very loud push forward. Make sure you break the glass for that one and remember to _duck._”

How could his mother leave something like this behind? It’s a thought that kept coming back every so often. She had a team that adored her. A title that forced a respect on her name. A position that would have left him somewhere in the world. Then again, if she had kept that life, things would be different. She’d probably fight until she could no longer. She’d probably would have never settled. He and his siblings would be an afterthought.

There’s no need to dwell on that. There’s a quest he must complete, but it’s a struggle when he starts to realize the drastic turn in crossing into the old parts of the city. It starts with the smell—wet decomposition, molded trash in the distance, and miscellaneous shit in the streets.

It’s an unfortunate, really. The deeper you make your way into the city, the more the unfriendly the stares become. It’s a drastic change between the land controlled by the King and the world controlled by the Ryja. The roads are cracked and in disarray and homes are in ruins and almost worse than the slums of the southern territories. Around them stumble drunkards and lost nobles scowling from the shadows as others take up the embrace of whores in the allies. Buildings look disheveled and abandoned. Windows have been boarded up in most, but others look occupied by squatters and thugs.

The air around him feels filthy. The poorer areas of Barrowlea saw more joy than the disarray of whatever happened here. The people there may lack some hygiene, but it was cleaner there—_brighter_ too, if he could say that. They were pushing themselves forward with learning skills few within their community knew. They were building homes for one another, expanding gardens and farms to the point where, trade amongst themselves may not bring extreme wealth and mountains of gold, but they weren’t living in puddle of their own urine while half of their failed brothels were being fucked in the elements.

Emmeline can’t help but frown. She mentioned how this was once a beautiful area when she arrived into the kingdom. People were proud, but shameless, of course. The streets used to be teeming with loud criers and the occasional explosion from the nearest science experiment either succeeding or failing. She almost misses it. The shuddering booms that rumbled the grounds beneath their feet almost makes her feel nostalgic, but Mohan couldn’t quite understand it. Why would you want something like that? Then again, this was a different land of people and they all do things drastically different.

Like entrances into bigger areas.

“Jump. Go on.”

Mohan’s brows crook upward, “Into a sewer hole?”

“An open manhole that’s casually in the middle of a littered park? Yes. Just trust me.”

“You… go first.”

Emmeline shrugs, “Fine. Wait ten seconds, and then jump. It’ll give me time to get out of the way.”

The park around them sits empty. A few straggle in, but none really care. Wrappers and papers are thrown mindlessly to the ground and the wandering homeless seem to occupy the small playground just some meters off. They still don’t care, but they glare with such anger towards them. To Mohan, they don’t seem to be there willingly… but they lurk out of spite. The thought of them makes him curious. He grabs Emmeline’s arm in hopes to hold her back as he steps around the manhole.

What is he going to offer a cluster of homeless citizens? A good question—Mohan hasn’t gotten there yet. But as he approaches, he can feel their anxiety spiking and their frustration with him increasing as if _he_ were the threat that brought their homes to ruin. However, they’re on their feet now, pushing toward him to stop him before he steps past the gate. It’s something he respects at least.

He bows deeply as a woman steps forward. She looks as if she hasn’t bathed in months, dirt on peach color skin and teeth yellowed. They definitely weren’t here on their own accord. “I seek your help, if you decide to assist.”

“And what help will that be?”

“Reclamation of a territory.” He spoke bluntly, “A tragedy has struck your home. None of you are allowed to return to your beds and continue your lives… So I ask for you assist in reclaiming it—if you’re not a coward, that is.” What is he saying? What is coming out of his mouth? He’s not sure.

“What are you getting at?”

“Shenanigans, perhaps. A bit of chaos and a touch of mayhem. Always does wonders, honestly.” He sounds so sure of himself. Confidence is something Mohan is weak on, but when he feels it bubbling in his chest, he must act on it. No more hesitation. That's what Calvet would have wanted out of him... that's what he would have _demanded_ of him. “What have we allowed them to do to our home? We ought to bring humiliation to the tyrants who brought shame to us and our homestead. We can’t claim to be barbarians with pride in our chests and live like _this_—it’s… It’s deplorable. But we—” Mohan gestures to them and back to himself (as if _he_ knew anything about their way of life), “We can be the terror that ruins. I just need you and whomever to create as much of a catastrophic nightmare for the Ryja as you can. I’ll deliver the head of their leader to you or the King, but I’ll deliver their living to the highest bidder.”

Someone scoffs, “_To the king,_ he says. Hard pass.”

“Why not? Kicking the head of that bastard to his feet would really put a smile on the King’s face. At least he’d know—or at least _believe_ his people are still at the top. Still great… otherwise, he’s bound to eventually see… **this.**”

“Let’s say I believe you,” she starts, “when do we begin? Who do we contact when this is over?”

“Well. As soon as possible, honestly. If we have to smoke out the tunnels temporarily to force them out that should at least that’ll help you gather some bodies to hang. As for a contact? No need for that. I’ll find you again.”

“How do we know we can trust you? You have a King’s guard lurking behind you.”

“Do I?” Mohan turns to watch Emmeline pace behind him. With truth, he knew nothing of who was what under Jolyon. There were so many champions being crafted in his taut fist and so many guards and mercenaries that lingered at his side, seeing how Emmeline was a Princess, he thought nothing of her. “Now that’s a shame. She told me she was a guide. Oh well. Who cares? If she gets in the way, it’s not my problem.” He gestures wildly with a shrug, “I’m just here for chaos.”

“I don’t believe you. I can’t see your face. I don’t even know who you are. How do we know you’re not just another pawn of the King?”

He forgot about that. The seamstress had told him the hood would keep him clandestine from the world around him. He could see out, but they could never see in. But that’s the positive, here, isn’t it? Well, part, at least, until he reaches into a pouch sat at his hip for two small vials of thick, red-orange liquid that left the glass warm. “Your paranoia with seeing her made me a pawn, but I wouldn’t be here,” his voices raises for a moment, “**so loudly** if I wasn’t here for your attention and your fury. Let me be your beacon so all of you can thrive once again. Be the chaos they fear because they can’t stop all of you. But I promise you bodies and _I_ want the corpse to their leaders.”

She nods and glances back at the clustered group behind her then down at the round bottles in his hand. With caution, she takes them, “What do we do with these?”

“You burn a pathway for your people to follow. Let the smoke tell the story of their fall. Just remember—shake for no longer than five seconds, pop the lid, and then throw it as far as you can. The splash back on fyreballs are not nice.”

“Fine. I’ll share a tip: they have secret passageways throughout the entrance tunnel you and your ‘guide’ were about to enter. Get in there and you can follow those corridors all the way to the entrance of their chapel hideout. It only has two exits: the door you entered and the door you’ll leave out of.” Her brows knit and she glances down at the small bottles, “That’s all the information you get out of me.”

“That’s enough for me.”

The group has doubled now. “Okay. What do we call you after all of this is done?”

Mohan definitely had not thought this far. He just allowed words to flow freely like water. But he’s silent for a moment, stepping back towards Emmeline who steps into the manhole. Give a dramatic exit and they’ll remember him. “For now,” he speaks, toeing that entrance deep within the ground, “You can call me Snake.”

And like that, he too, dropped into the abyss of a hole he’s unsure about.


	20. A Plan for Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi.  
it's been a while.

It was a daring drop, he knows, makes his heart drop when he can no longer feel the ground ‘neath his feat. There’s no sounds of rushing water or anything he’d hope to hear from a sewer pipe, but there are lights around him, shooting upwards as he descends into _something._

But then there’s an opening and a harsh slow down that makes his body shudder. The ground still sits a couple feet beneath him, yet there is something holding him in place, lowering him slowly to the ground, like magic. In fact, as he glances up, he can see those lights dancing at the exit of the hole he had fallen out. There were runes glowing then dimming away into nothing.

“You’re starting to get a little ballsy, ‘_Snake’_.” Emmeline is fixing her own hood now. “Where did this spike of bravado come from?”

“I like snakes…” His heart is racing with all honesty. Mohan can’t quite explain where the moments come from, but it’s always a rush when it happens. Makes his hands shake, though. That’s not the plus of the situation, just a downfall. “But… but you can’t laugh,” he starts, “promise you won’t laugh?”

“I promise.”

“You know those panel books? The… comics about the military spy who goes to war with his lover because he thought she was a defect?”

“Broken Steel?”

“Yeah. Damien would buy them for me in bulk and send them home.” Those thick picture books are what taught him out to read, but he won’t mention that. Alas, he holds up his hands, “**_But,_** there was this part here Commander Cobra stages a coup and she starts off by giving a bunch of strangers explosives so they can dismantle the government that ruined their livelihoods. I know in my head it won’t work the same, but her personality is what drives me sometimes and it seemed appropriate.”

Emmeline’s mouth opens, closes, and then opens again with a few stunted noises. She can’t help but blink at him with a little laugh, “Really?”

“You said you wouldn’t laugh.”

“I don’t mean it to be mean. It’s precious, actually. You want to be more like Cobra or Snake?”

“Snake, actually. The perfect spy integrates into life like a blank face in a crowd. I admire how people always know his face, but never know what horrors he’s done in his life. I want to be like that. Where, if I’m forced to be stuck like this, no one has to know what I do in the background.”

She nods, “Okay, I get it. Just keep that mentality and you’ll get better at being more forceful. Just know that those books are going to eat at your mind. You’re gonna have people thinking either you’re getting too cocky or developing a weird God complex.”

“I… don’t think that’s going to happen any time soon.” _Well…_

“But in the meantime? We can either push forward to the estate or wait until your new friends make some noise.”

“I’m too impatient for that. Lead the way.”

It’s a long walk through the dimly lit shaft. A few blank faces long past them and disappeared into the surroundings before Mohan ever realized that it was only that, _a few people,_ making rounds as if they were watching them. Yet, even that was too odd to not notice. There’s only two way through the tunnel and three ways out—the entrance they came through and both edges of the tunnel. So how were they the only faces…?

Mohan grabs Emmeline and pulls her against the wall with a finger to his lips, hushing her as they waited. Something was up—these tunnels were being watched. But for what reason? That’s what he wanted to know. She mimics him in movement, back pressed as far against the wall as she could as she stepped quietly into the shadows. Against the wall, she can hear a gentle whispering, as if someone or something was beckoning to her. They speak in languages unknown to her, leaving an icy touch against her pointed ear. But soon, she can see little lines of black creeping over her arms and dipping over her shoulder, but none on Mohan.

With time, those faces showed up, just feet before them. And Mohan frowns, their attire held nothing of what he had seen of the guilds before they made their way through the city, nor did any of them look to be members of any royal clans. They were clergymen. All three of them donned in black, half capes draped over their shoulders and red, blank collars with a sigil of steel dangling from their throats as opposed to the decorated ones Kularian followers wore.

And they sure as hell weren’t Astani.

“Did you see which way they went?” One questioned; his voice low and dipping into a harsh whisper. “They can’t have gotten far.”

Another shrugged, “They won’t make it into the village unless the Boss’ lockdown has been reverted?”

“Fuck no. He don’t want nobody down here without some damn invitation.”

“An invitation? For what?”

There’s a scoff from the third one, “Hell if I know. I don’t want to know either. Guess we gotta make it to the checkpoints before they do. You head to back to the sanctum and warn the men there. They don’t get out alive—_period._”

There’s only one way out with a comment like that and it begins with a line of fire to smoke them out. All they had to do was pace themselves as they could and wait. With one going left and the other right, they waited for the last one to make his move. There had to be something that connected these tunnels, especially keeping the three of them looping over and over when the two of them barely made it forward.

Emmeline can feel her stomach turn and her eyes burn then feel a nudge from Mohan. “Turn your head. Don’t look at his hands.” He warns, “Sigils are not kind to non-magical folk. Trust me. We’ll follow close and… take him out?” He sounds unsure, but can feel her nod at his shoulder.

At least he understands the toils of sigil magic. Wizards are known for stupidly using them, idiotically embedding them into the bodies of their wands and eventually, slowly, _painfully,_ succumbing to a madness that destroys them. Those sigils radiate a heat that makes your skin sting. Every usage of that sigil that glows from the palm of his hand must melt a part of his brain away until he sees the world of horrors that haunt Oracles… that is… until it kills him. Mohan knows it’s coming, but none of these “priests” know that. They just smell a power that others aren’t allowed to have.

There’s a slit in the wall now visible to all of them. An entrance slowly opens and he steps in and as the door closes, they hurry in behind. It’s another tunnel, one similar to the last, except this one was a touch brighter and the door behind them was a solid, brown, stone wall. Emmeline can still hear that whispering and Mohan has yet to release her arm.

That man doesn’t seem to notice either of them, but the look in Mohan’s features looks as if he’s ready to speak up without following him entirely. Yet, they follow him for a while, skulking in the darkest parts of the winding corridors as they can, watching as he stops and spins around to look behind him as if he knew they were still there.

He shouldn’t have looked back that final time.

The “priest” turns back and Mohan gives an enthusiastic “Hey,” before swinging a harsh fist into the man’s jaw. Was that a crack or a joint popping, Mohan can’t tell, but he’s hoping for the latter as the man goes tumbling into the wall.

Emmeline could feel the soft whispers being to fade. That creeping shadow that kept them clandestine from the paranoid stare of that man slowly began to disappear into nothing, the walls lightening up to show old wear and scars from things bumping and scratching against them. It forced her gaze back to Mohan who sat crouched next to the priest. He kept them shielded… but with _what?_ Magic? It… has to be. All those little rumors doesn’t explain the discomfort as fully as it does for her now. Goosebumps and hair rising at the back of her neck, it’s… different, but not at all “horrifying.” This has to be the life people spoke about when they believed they heard something thriving in his magic.

She’s back to staring at Mohan hold the man’s head in his hands. The “priest” sat wide-eyed and slack-jawed as he fumbled around for words that didn’t quite make sense to either of them. She hadn’t heard any demands from the Oracle nor had she noticed the man speaking. He doesn’t look as if he’s truthfully focused on anything, just dead-eyed as if he were staring _past_ Mohan but lost in the black emptiness of his hood.

The “priest” seizes, his teeth gritting and body buckling as Mohan stands. She can hear him breathing hard, the whine of anguish leading him to the floor with a vivid expression of fear and pain etched across his features that quickly lead to silence and a trickle of blood from his nose.

“What… did you do to him?”

“What I was told to do?”

Emmeline shakes her head, “No, no. Did you use, like, _magic_ to kill him?”

“He’s not dead.” That’s not an answer that makes her comfortable.

How long had she been standing there dazed? Emmeline blinks a few times then opens her mouth. He had gotten that much information out and she never even noticed it. Mohan cocks his head, “Oh. I should have warned you first. Damien threw up the first time he did a shadow walk. You can lose track of time the first few times. After that, you get used to it.”

“Please don’t do it again. I feel horrible.” A breath and she’s standing upright again. “What did you do to him?”

“Sometimes threatening people with a knife won’t do anything. You gotta get in their head, but he won’t be following after us.” With a purse of his lips and a vague point, he looks back at her, “Luckily, I did manage to figure out where we need to go and how many people are inside their ‘Sanctum’.”

She doesn’t like the thought of that—getting into the heads of others without a cost. Just from what she saw, It took a look and the babbling of a dying man before it was over. It almost makes the back of her throat burn with bile. However, she clears her throat, “How bad is it?”

“I guess, not too bad? Four leaders. Twenty foot-soldiers. And all of them have this belief that the head boss will bring back the Red King.”

Her mouth opens then closes. “The Red King?”

“Yup.”

“The one of ‘all eternal evil’?”

“Yep.”

“So what does this spell out… if they _do_ succeed?”

Mohan shrugs, “The downfall of this nation, really. But, it does show that there’s a cult behind the war. Therefore, it’s all shenanigans, so in truth—we win by shenanigans.”

Dragging her hands down her face, the assassin nods. He’s not wrong. Sometimes the worst ideas are the best… but it happens when you run blind in missions like this. Emmeline knew that. The dumber the plan, the better the success. She glances back down at the body of the “priest,” his skin paling by the second.

Don’t think about it. Stick to the terrible plan and move forward. There’ll be more bodies like this from him. She has to understand that. But for now? Harassment and shenanigans.


	21. A Moment to Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes a little conversation can build a lot.

Magic is scant in Rovenica. Wizards and sorcerers were seen with high importance for they were the ones who held a steady hand with medical expertise and battle prowess that left onlookers amazed… but _his_ is different. Then again, the magic of the people here was **vastly** different. It was common, here. There were schools. There were bog witches. There were normal, everyday people trying to learn the skill, knowing the end cost. At the start, she was amazed. She watched how soldiers casted fire from their fingers with no ties to demons or holy patrons. But the western nations were all like this—ponderous in their usage of bright, loud magic.

But she can’t, for the life of anything, explain how Mohan’s magic works… then again, that’s probably why Oracles are so secretive now.

Yet, those voices haven’t left her head yet. They were soft spoken and cautious, a few warned her to stay flat against the wall and keep her eyes averted—as if they were parroting him… if they could all speak the same shared language, of course. She had no clue of what they were or if they were evil, but she could understand the fears of the maids in the estate.

There was something wrong with their Oracle… but at the same time, she’s sure he doesn’t understand the demons that lurk in the shadows. It boggles her when at the beginning it terrified her. For months during his visit, she avoided him like the plague, watching in the distance as he ghosted his way through the King’s estate… In an odd turn of events, the assassin might be going soft on the young man for the single thought of being intensely fascinated with him.

How interesting…

“So,” she starts, “What exactly are you? Magic-wise, that is? I know all of you have specific titles…”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re a mage—”

“—_Witch._”

“What’s the difference?”

“I never went to school. We could afford it, yes, but a lot of schools are located far out and nearby royal areas. They don’t want commoners and they sure don’t want Astani.”

She pauses to turn to him. They still have time. These corridors were nothing but endless twists and turns that forced them back to where they came. Even with the general direction from the dead priest and the woman topside, they were still skirting that thin line of being lost. “I don’t understand—why don’t people like the Astani? You and your people are harmless.”

“Rumors say we’re dangerous. To an extent, yes. We control the food people eat. We are the people who slaughter your beef, grow your corn, bake your bread—what-have-you, but one little change could potentially wipe a city. But no one thinks that deep into that. We’re farmers, Emmeline. We live that dirty life that nobles hate.”

“Oh, come on. It can’t be like that.”

“But it is. To them we’re goat-fuckers and horse-milkers. They believe that because we’ve surrounded ourselves on holy land to grow crops and raise animals, we corrupted it as much as we’ve corrupted the animals we apparently fuck.”

“How…? How did that become the stereotype?”

“No one knows that you have to shove your hands in animals to help them. Apparently reaching into a cow to help her birthing process easier counts as fisting too… and that doesn’t add on to the breeding part because there’s so much bullshit. Yet, there’s also the open door policy that they hate. When people hit their lowest point, they’re poor, they’ve got nothing—we bring them in. We teach them—_guide_ them to strive on their own land without us. Nobles just want a reason for the poor to die out, but we won’t let that happen.” Mohan snorts, “Just wait until they find out who runs the market, trading, and farming guilds. Spoiler: _it’s us._”

“That’s… just silly.”

“You’d think so but they barely even know we’ve been here much longer than anyone else. This land is ours. Whether they like it or not.”

Her history of Barrowlea is small, if anything. She knew their kings, their leaders, and the current empire, despite dethroned by a trusted hand’s cult backing, but not the Astani themselves. Royals and nobles spoke poorly of them when she _did_ hear of them. Emmeline had believed that they were either immigrants squatting in empty plots of land or the dirt poor, beggars, and occasional roadside harasser.

She would have never known they were far more than just the rumors.

Yet, as she frees herself from the grasp of her thoughts, she can feel Mohan staring at her as if he had asked something she didn’t hear. She tilts her head.

“I asked if you miss Rovenica?” He removes his hood, fanning himself slightly with his hand.

“Sometimes, why?”

“We’re gonna be down here for a little while. Might as well chat.”

There’s a curt nod before she crosses her arms over her chest, “_Missing it_ is an understatement… It’s been a long time since I’ve been home, but moon elves still frown in my direction like I didn’t serve my time.”

“What did you do? I know you were stripped of your crown and that’s it.”

What _didn’t_ she do is the better question? The Rovenican Republic was a peaceful country. They didn’t believe in fighting or warfare, that’s why they hired allied groups to do it for them. It’s why Rovenica was so close to those Totlemill ilk in Viloden. They, unlike the countries that surrounded them, were one In the same… unfortunately.

Violence, back home at least, was never an answer they could ever respond to, and for her—_a princess, _no less, to stain her hands with the blood of her people brought an eternity of shame to her and the throne.

“I did what I had to,” she starts. “I wasn’t fighter savvy or however they speak of their warrior intelligence. I spent thirty years getting here and I still know very little of the assassin world.”

“But that doesn’t explain what you did.”

The nerves eat at her stomach, but she knows something so grand won’t bring shock to a man like him—a borderline mortician with a sick skill. The thought of it still gives her chills. “I… killed my husband and watched him choke. I couldn’t deny what I had done. Too many people watched me do it.”

“And that’s cause for expulsion of your home?”

“It’s different there than it is here.” There’s uncertainty in her voice, the way she seems to shift in her stance while they walk catches Mohan’s attention just enough for him to slow down and face her. “A fight is harmless. It happens. They know they can’t suppress frustration… but maiming someone? Poisoning them? Hiring others to do your work? That’s grounds for death.”

“Isn’t that hypocritical?”

“Yes, but years of public executions struck fear into them that it built this society that fears violence because they believe it’ll happen to them too.”

“But you’re alive.”

“_I escaped._” Jolyon claimed he understood, but Emmeline never believed him. A king killing someone he loved? Never in his lifetime, but had he ever gotten close? She never asked. She never questioned about the first wife and mother of his eldest. Maybe he did understand and that’s why he works the way he does.

“What did your husband do?”

“Nothing in the terms of violence. I grew tired of his condescending behavior. All he cared about was becoming a King despite his blood would have never graced my family throne—_I_ would have never graced the throne. But… Everything he did made me so… angry.”

“That’s no reason to kill him—_divorce,_ yes, but…”

“Oh, Gods above. Moon Elves don’t believe in divorce. It’s death or imprisonment.”

“Oh!”

“Do you understand that I didn’t want this. He was chosen for me and I had no say so… Therefore I made my own exit.” She sighs, “I’d be rotting on the gallows if it wasn’t for Jolyon taking my side. That stubborn old fool saved my life and I am grateful.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

She hushes him with a shake of her head, “It’s fine… But you do have to share. It’s an equal trade after all. Why are you really doing this? Does of the life of a pastor not fulfill you?”

“No.”

Where does he start? The first taste of danger was a knife at his throat by the throne-stealer, Sihannak Ulthar, himself. A child not much older than ten then, yes, but one hunted by the ex-Advisor’s thugs with such hungry excitement, he assumed he was wanted by rabid wolves. He could remember how they crawled along the floors tossing every little thing over to find him hiding in an old chest, small and afraid. That didn’t add on to the list of bodies he was subjected to watch being burned at the stake from the Advisor’s command.

Yet, Mohan chewed at his lip for a moment. “Damien died from my negligence,” he started, “Crystalheim had been hit with a shifter problem during a Blood Moon. They had gone through two villages and a city and ours was right in the middle… I just wanted to help.”

He could remember the smell of burning wheat and the iron that stained the air for days on end. The hoard that came barreling through his home left nothing but shreds of bodies in their wake. Crystalheim was at its weakest here, struggling to flourish off the tourist sightings for ancient stones… and yet… Mohan watched him fall. He watched as that old blade covered in thick carnage pierced through Damien’s chest and how he stumbled to the ground.

“I saw the light fading from him and something in me just…” He paused looking for the right words. Nothing ever came. “I had felt that feeling before and I was chastised for it… Told that a man of my level should never crawl in the dirt with lesser folk, but I couldn’t get rid of that feeling. It made my hands shake… and when I had my hands wrapped around that beast’s throat—I felt alive and filled with an ungodly amount of rage… But when I brought him back?” Mohan’s voice falls, “It quelled so quickly… A man of my ‘stature’ should never feel something as visceral as that… so I should do something about it. Something to help that feeling and not curb it… it’d just get worse if I tried to stop it.”

“By stealing?”

“Theft was already an unfortunate quirk. I don’t know how that came about, honestly… I just see myself as a bird—always attracted to shiny objects.”

“Which would explain your attraction to your Protector, truthfully.”

He stops, “What does that mean?”

“The way you speak about him is very loud about how you feel about him. Then our last conversation? The two of you share a bed, Mohan. It, also, didn’t take very long to see you following behind him like a lovesick puppy in all that glistening armor. Is your theft another way to say how you want to steal his heart?”

He stifles a nervous laugh, but she’s serious. “Oh Creators, no.” Hands at his hips and brows furrowed, for once Mohan has no idea how to respond… but, to him, his kleptomania was not an allegory for falling in love. “Gold. Silver. Weaponry. Clothing. Jewelry. Forbidden items—it _allures_ me. How I feel for Damien is different.”

“Convince me otherwise.”

His mouth opens for a moment, “Damien and I have been… _friends_ for years. I will admit, I would be jealous when people opened their arms to him when I was pushed aside… but he always came back to me. No one had ever been as kind to me as he had… Even my family believed I should follow the lines of priesthood… He thought otherwise.” He almost looks distressed with the grimace on his face, “It doesn’t help that I slept with him a few years back.”

“Oh really?”

“I think that’s what did me in completely.”

“Most certainly.”

“He doesn’t remember it… that’s why I’ve found it so difficult to bring up—how… How did we get here again?”

“Same way all bonding experiences go.” She scrunches her nose with a smile he almost hates, but unlike the beginning, at least she digging into him with every question that popped into her head. It’s almost endearing… “You are hopelessly in love with him.”

Mohan groans, “It’s unfortunate, isn’t it? Emmeline, I can’t tell you how much of a fool I am. How could I fall in love with a chaste man who probably doesn’t understand what masturbation is? It’s a joke… I hate it.”

“How can he be chaste or abstinent if you’ve already danced around with him?” She’s mocking him, isn’t she? The way she wiggles her eyebrows at him makes him frown.

“The man is a paladin. All he needs is prayer, repentance, and a really good flog for self-flagellation.”

“Have you used the flog?”

He gasps; a hand to his chest and mouth agape, “Such an immoral question to a man of holy righteousness!” He pauses, “I thought about it.”

A laugh is shared, one genuine and odd for the young Oracle. It felt different to experience a build of weak friendship in such a short amount of time. Was it natural? Perhaps. Perhaps not. One whom had put up a hard front and kept away from others knew the discomfort of socializing. At times, Mohan became the person who hid behind his mother’s legs well into adulthood… But this was nice… _welcoming,_ more so.


	22. Worthlessness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slowly but surely, i emerge from my hiatus. kinda...

“You _are_ **Death**, you must understand that. Don’t allow anyone else to tell you otherwise.”

The war was pushed onto the shores of allied nations, spreading a hatred and fear so deep into foreign innocents that trust began to run thin. The friendly faces grew sour at their visiting allies that they pushed against the Monarch’s word of kindness. They were there for help, not war with them—but assistance. It was the right thing to do after those same people stood at their side for years at war with hundreds of enemies. That was their promise—the Treaty of Lions, was.

But it was the aftermath that left him wanting more. The taste of strength that lit his nerves aflame when he stood at the venomous, frothing mouth of surging traitors descending upon the friendly shores of Estelle. Calvet refused to allow that power to dwindle. Mohan held talents that needed to flourish that he had simply stumbled upon. With time, he could have been created into an unstoppable force, and yet… Yet, Mohan didn’t believe in himself. How he viewed himself was less than ideal, however it could be negated somehow.

At the beginning, he phrased his words like a threat—“You _will_ become what Kularius wants you to be.” The Rose General would speak of how Mohan would grow to hate him as he spent time to demolish him so he could be rebuilt. Of course, the Oracle would scoff and retort with the same comment of not being a soldier, but the General could care less. Like the Oracles prior, he could be like them—**_power hungry._** The training he pressed into Mohan was to feed the thriving hunger that lingered in his hands by feeling the pain of striking flesh.

It needed to become a hunt to him, like a chase of rare diamonds at the end of a dangerous tunnel.

And so, the build began thusly…. with a steel staff to the back of Mohan’s legs. He was going to feed that thirst of the young Oracle.

“I’ve watched you become what the enemy fears, but you don’t know how to harness it.” He’s pressing that staff into the shoulder blade of the downed Oracle, “Anger sparks it, but it is untamed. We will not allow this to continue.”

There were very few Warlords left. Jolyon was one. The Raven Empress was the second. And then there was Calvet, retired as a _Warlord,_ yes, but still thriving in his element—dangerously. **Meticulously.** If someone was going to teach him how to control himself and build his magic safely, it was him.

Days would go by and Mohan found himself drifting. He knew his magic better than any onlooker, but only tested it through trial and error of what would hurt _him_ and not enemies, for there were virtually none within Crystalheim. To have live targets meant to hold empathy. Those who seek build themselves were willing participants and Mohan couldn’t allow himself to fear striking the General or being struck by the hoards he sent.

“To break you, I’d have to find that bubble that holds your anger and pop it.” Mohan remembers that click of his boots as he stopped before him, the cold steel of his staff pressed at the back of Mohan’s neck. “The hard part is finding it. Then again, there are other ways of doing this… and that’s simply breaking your spirit before I pass you off to Jolyon.” The pressure eases and Calvet steps back, “En garde.”

Every space the General throws him in is tight but allows just enough range for wide swings. However, Calvet knew that if he gave him too much open space, he wouldn’t learn to think on his feet or learn to use his surroundings. An outdoor environment would prove to be too spacious for what he and Jolyon wanted of Mohan, whereas a singular room, cluttered with chairs and quiet corners could spark some type of imagination. He needed to understand that, unlike a soldier, his fights were to be close in combat and dripping with frustration as he learns not all fights can be won with brute force. It is a tactic that is left to soldiers who don’t care how the river of a battle flows. They’ll fight upstream to make sure they reach civilization not caring that there is still more downstream. They were taught not to care. Mohan was not. Care about your space. Fight all who come upstream in hopes to end them before they end you.

Act fast or die—that was their stipulation. Each swing was another painful lesson of keeping your guard up and understanding what it meant to think. _Keep thinking._ It’s imperative to **_think._** Mohan needed to focus his attention on everything—the chairs, the corners, the attacking General—but every other question led back to “_how?_’ He had no weapons, no means of protection aside from bruised arms held up to deflect the harsh blows.

**Think,** that’s all you have to do.

There’s an awkward pull in his foot and a pop to his ankle as he shifts in his weight, barely ducking under the sharp sound of the steel staff whistling above his head. Yet the weapon stops abruptly when he gathers his footing once more, swinging back to strike his just under his arm. It knocks the breath from his lungs, but without caution he catches that staff and yanks back. Calvet holds the rod with a tight grip, giving Mohan a moment of struggle within their game of tug-of-war. Yet, he steps closer, one hand still taut, but his gaze eternally murderous.

**_Think._** That’s it. That’s all he has to do.

The world is slowed for him. In a limited, confined space, he still has options. He could relinquish the staff and snatch a chair up. _No,_ that’d take far too long. He could keep pulling? _No,_ he’d eventually get hit. Mohan stares at him for a moment, then lifts his foot just enough to bring it down on the shin of the older man. If the staff is all he has as _something_, it’s what he should be using as a barrier of sorts, right? Those rapid thoughts keep intruding with “what if’s” and panic as he twists around the skinny pole. It’s still a messy turn, but he gets another swing in—a kick to the General’s side. A moment of surprise and Calvet stumbles, hands finally releasing the steel weapon.

“Ow.” Calvet frowns, rubbing the now reddened skin on his waist. “You kick like a fucking horse when you get into it.” He straightens and winces, “I half expected you to throw a chair at me.”

“I thought about it.”

“It would have extended this fight a bit longer, but you’ve gotten better since we’ve last been together. Have you used the practice dummy I sent?”

“No, not really.”

The General’s removing his thin, ragged shirt now, “No? How come? Have you found someone to train with?”

“Yes. We have a Vai’dyn Warlord in the nearby hamlet. He and his men stepped up to help me. Then there was the harassment of worthless Champions that sparked it forward.”

“Worthless?” He chuckles, adjusting the wraps that bound his chest with a wince, “What did you do to provoke these _‘worthless’ _Champions?”

“Exist in their space, really. I wanted to see what the pit fights were like since Warlord Odinth’s daughter was one of their prize fighters. They didn’t like me there; therefore I needed to be taught a lesson for being in their space.”

“So, what did you do?” Calvet questions from the floor.

“I trained, like you told me. Day in and day out. Sybel did nothing but complain—claimed he was worried of my wellbeing and my mental state being tainted by revenge. It was none of that.”

“I don’t care about what that freak has to complain about—what did _you_ do?”

“I challenged them—_all_ of them—not to redeem myself, but to prove that I could do it.”

“Then why do you hesitate?” Calvet stands poised before him, brows knitted and head tilting, “If you can fight and **_beat_** a champion, what holds you back from raising a hand to me? Am I not another opponent? I am a Champion just as they are and yet…” He pauses, “You’re at that level of a worthless cur thriving on your own bravado.”

“How am I—?”

“You still shirk at the mere mention of a fight.” He scoffs, head up and gaze strong as he steps forward, “A pessimist Oracle I can understand, but what will you do for your country? Fight or hide like the cowardly bitch you are. These people will burn before their so-called protector ever stands up for them.”

There was a time prior that brought those thoughts to the forefront of his mind. He had watched his homeland burn under the blood moon. Citizens were torn to pieces; children were scattered amongst the burning wreckage of dying farms… and all his heart craved for was to help. Being a worthless set of eyes and never once stepping forward to assist them burned at his nerves. He wanted to be at the side of the guards pushing back at the beasts hungry at their doorstep.

Being **_worthless_** was not an option.

It was a chance to test his magic. A chance to prove he wasn’t worthless… and yet, here he stands with those thoughts nagging away at him—agreeing with the taunts of the Rose General. At the beginning, it was a common thought—an Oracle with a pure mind and even purer heart. His hands were to never be tainted with the blood of evil but be there to help the fallen innocents. To the people, his ilk, the faceless crowds, Mohan was to be a saint whether he wanted it or not.

Oh, how it singes such loathing disgust into his veins.

“Prove me wrong or join their pit of worthless pussies, it your choice.”

The first fight left him with his hands shaking. There was a pain in his heart and a tightness in his lungs that filled him with a rush so enthralling he craved more. The tingle in his hands, the goosebumps that rose at his skin and left a shudder to his breath… but he couldn’t explain that to Calvet without it sounding as if he were possibly whining, nor could he explain it with his head low, tucked messily at the General’s side as he charged the man to the ground.

If there was something he learned, it was to ignore the ache in ones hands, keeps your swings short, let frustration drive your strikes. Fear nothing. It’ll only continue to hold him back if he allows himself to accept those demons of second doubt. It was his downfall, he knew that, but to be taunted like this—while _training_ no less, left him confused. Does he hold back or does he let loose what he’s learned? Then again, does it matter when the end of their fight is to be downed or killed?

_Does it matter?_

**No.**

He’s back on his feet now, inching back with little sway from the swings of his tutor. With a stomp forward, Jacques looks to be out for blood. The General brings his leg up for a kick and is greeted with a messy block. There’s a counter, a kick from the Oracle, his movements gradually gaining confidence. Through twists and turns, he’s pushed Calvet back, not once holding his strikes back as he advances forward.

Is it clumsy? Yes, but what fight isn’t— especially between a master and his protégé? The way they move is a staggered dance that leaves them breathless but rushing back for more. The sound of torn clothing almost echoes in the dead room until the wet slap of damp flesh strikes the tiled floors. It’s different, Jacques’ opponent is. Mohan doesn’t hesitate to use his body as a weapon over his hands and feet, nor does it seem that he cares about doing it. A push comes from a harsh shove of more than just his shoulder, but when he grabs the other man; he ensures that his grip is tight as he yanks the other to the ground.

Calvet is sure, at this point, that his own shoulder is dislocated from the landing. He winces, holding a free hand up before collapsing fully to the ground, “Okay. _Maybe_ you’ve learned something.”

Mohan’s quiet, listening to the elf wheeze a wet cough. He’s still in that cloud of malicious doubt, just as he was when he fought those braggart champions. He shouldn’t have succeeded—_ever._ No matter what the outcome was, it felt as if it wasn’t deserved. He could do better; he could _be_ better, and yet… There’s no celebration on winning, not like there was when he beat the last blowhard. After this, he didn’t feel that tingle that lit him on fire for weeks.

Was it wrong? He should be celebrating. That euphoric pull should be there flickering away at his nerves.

“This… _this_ is how every fight should be,” Calvet continued. “You have the power and the strength to hold the fight, your confidence simply needs work. But, it all points in the direction of you needing to be in your field to gain it… but that’s the old man’s job, not mine. I’m just here to make sure you bring the devastation. I want to see the treasures you obtain when you succeed.”

What ruins you is doubt. It thrives in your own beliefs and speaks unintelligible bullshit in soft whispers in the back of your head. It’s a monster that grows and festers within the depths of one’s depression and lack of confidence. That was always Calvet’s lesson to Mohan. It was his method of teaching his fighters. Jolyon’s was to push them forward and allow them to gain their own momentum. It felt like Mohan’s push was held in the hope of him sprinting out the gate. And at Emmeline’s side? Despite her talking to his mindless “mm-hmm’s” and grunts, it felt that his sprint to the finish was slowed by a babysitter.

“_Mohan?_”

He’s answering to nothing now. Emmeline had long stopped speaking… and walking.

“Mohan? Hey? Hey!”

What exactly did he learn from that moment with Jacques? Confidence comes from a moment of strength only _you_ can find. Mohan had to continue forward without her at his side. Mayhaps, without her, not only will things push forward quicker, but it’ll give him a moment to think… to _believe_ he can do it.

There’s a door in front of him now…

“I… Let’s split here and cover more ground.”

The Captain tilts her head, “You sure about that? You really think you’d make it to _wherever _without aid?”

“Yes. It’s a smarter method. We’d be able to not only eliminate the guards, but also plant that seed of chaos. A fire here. An explosion there. The people I spoke with earlier, if they actually follow through, would see that we meant everything. We have to try.”

“You wouldn’t get far.”

“You have no confidence in me.” He barely has confidence in himself… “Just trust me on this… Or I will just… go without consultation.”

“Now _that_ I do doubt—.”

“—Try me.”

He can see her jaw tighten and her head nod wearily, “If this is what you want, then do what you want. You get caught and I was never here.”

“Then I won’t get caught. I’ll just start a very angry fire. That ought to be my distraction to escape.” And the start to push to regain buried land.


	23. Intermission: The Boy the Usurper Built.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup.  
it's me.  
ya boi.  
coming in with some lore building. check out the author's note and glossary terms at the end!

There are hopes for thunder on the horizon. The thudding heard in the black sky brought a flinch to the child curled up in its limited black, yet never a flash of lightning comes to alert him of the oncoming rain. His stomach churns from the vibrating thuds bouncing around him and the sound of muffled demons barking in the distance.

Where could the boy have gone wrong? Napping in church brought a wrath from the Gods and they seek him with such a righteous fury, bringing thunderous vibrations crashing around him, but not once bringing harm. The space simply shook, and the barking amplified, filling the trapped space with overlapping voices furious of… something.

But how did it get here? How had the demons trapped him in such a case so tight and unsettling? How did they make their way into a home once filled with safety and fill it with a choking black? His elder had only been gone for a few moments before they arrived stomping through with haunting sound of inhuman screeching filling the garden he idled in. Birds disappeared flocks and children scattered through the high stalks as quiet as death itself.

However, he could hear them—the sudden shrieks cut off into the green nothing. The demons had snatched them up—gobbled them, probably. But the boy knew better. He knew how to stay low and stay quiet. Let the high greenery swallow you whole as beasts circle you like hungry vultures and _push_ forward. Become water and flow through the dark corners deep within the covered field to escape because the monsters sucking up the folk around him can’t do the same. That’s what his elder told him.

_Your magic is your strength. If they want to fear you for your strength—**let them.**_

If you cover your mouth hard enough, they can’t hear you breathe. There are demons out there, looking for you with such fetid hatred in their hearts. One little bump in that pocket of black and they’ll come running with hungry maws wide and drooling.

Do not be found.

Let them know what corner of the dark you hide in.

But now, the boy can hear the rhythmic clicking of boots—slow and cautious. Far too heavy to be the light, fast stride of his elder, but one of a seeking hellion far too sure of where he was. There’s a pause in that darkness, a light shuffle then a few soft muddled demands. Yet, he hears it—angry and noxious.

“I know he’s here.”

_Thump._

_Thump. Thump. **Crash.**_

“Mohan? Mohan, do you remember me? Advisor Ulthar? I promise you. You and I met a few years ago when you stole my book and hid under my desk.” Silence. “Please, show yourself. We must reunite with Oracle Vollan.”

He can hear the scratch of chairs being yanked across the floor and the table shifting in the distance, but he mustn’t move. Not one breath. Not one shudder.

“Vè abour ku ti’ja, Mohan. Ørr ju mevinanat.” The clicking stops and there’s a shift. Inside his limited black, the boy holds his breath, his lungs tightening and his body trembling. He mustn’t move. He mustn’t breathe. But now? Now the boy surrounded in his black can hear the thunder again. “Come out of the box, Mohan. I don’t want to force you out.” _Tap. Tap. Tap._ Mohan _knows_ that’s not a finger tapping at what was his empty void of safety. “Come on out.”

_Tap._

_ Tap._

_ **Tap.**_

And the thunder cracks, but this time lighting flashes. He can feel something at the skin of his belly—something sharp and uncomfortable pressing against him. Yet, it’s quickly yanked away and a streak of light now pours into the darkness of his pocket of safety.

“I am not cross with you, Mohan. Just annoyed you’d ignore me for so long. I’m simply trying to be your _friend._” Another streak of light flashes into the space, but he feels another scratch of pain gliding across his skin. “Oh, fine. I guess I’ll have to carry you out of here.”

Though the light flashes, Mohan moves quickly with a rake of a dirty kitchen knife forward, upward and a couple slashes side to side and scampers blindly out of the chest he hid within. There’s a hiss from the man and stream of swearing as he runs through the kitchen, hoping there was no one awaiting him on the other side.

However, there was.

None _alive _unfortunately.

Bodies sit strewn about the sitting room, blood still vivid and bright—but he has to move… if he can make it over the bodies that block the door. Nevertheless, he slips in a puddle, slamming a knee to the hardwood floor, but it doesn’t stop him… It just brings the lurking man to stand tall at the kitchen entrance.

“They wanted to hurt you, Mohan. I can’t let you die.” He steps forward, a hand wiping the blood away at his bearded cheek messily, “Unfortunately, I’m frightfully upset with you, my boy. I only came to help you and you cut me? That isn’t nice.”

He steps over a body, then another… and another. But the door is so close, and the young boy almost feels as if the corpses are weighing him down, clawing down at his bare ankles and dirty feet, trapping him with the rest of them.

No. They don’t have to grab _him_, per se. And so, he steps back, tripping over yet another body behind him as he moves to the cracked door, watching the man creep forward like a darkened shadow, eyes glowing red from the darkened room. Mohan needs him closer, just by a little bit… And a chill comes, shuddering its way down his skinny arms in a cloud of thick black, but brought hard silence.

There’s a clatter. Then a breathless noise of lifting bodies reaching from the floor to grip at the fabric of the man in tainted white. The man huffs, yanking his clothing free and slashing at the dead skin of the armored bodies crawling towards him. They move like water, wave after wave reaching up to pull him down, noiselessly shambling to him with hands reached and bodies solid. Yet before he gets a chance to look for the boy, he’s long slipped through the crack of front door.

Think of the Black. Think of the Black and let it swallow you up. Remember how the Black protected you from such monstrosities for just a moment. It is always the protection you crave—_remember that._

It hurts to run without shoes, but it’s not uncommon. Mohan’s used to traversing through tight, dense forests, and used to the little scratches and cuts that come from rogue branches whipping back across his legs or tumbling into thorns, but not used to avoiding head hunters searching for him.

But where is she?

Where is Kataleya?

Not here. Not protecting him from the man in the house… that now emerged himself at full height from the mouth of the forest exit.

“You think I don’t know this area—I grew up here and I’m going to help them burn it down. With you at my side of course.” He crouches as his voice lowers to a whisper and a cynical grin curls at bearded cheeks. “You are what those evil people want and together we’ll make sure they don’t succeed.” He holds out a hand covered in dried and wet blood. The sight of it has bled into the light blue cuffs of his sleeve and the splatter has gone up his sleeve.

Mohan knows better than to trust a man covered in the gore of his fallen. However, his heart throbs. What happens now? What happens when you can’t run away? Long answer: you try again. You run. Short answer: _you improvise._ You mimic what you see others do the best you can and try to make some distance.

_But you fucking run._

And you **become the Black**.

Bushes are not your friends; they move too easily and expose you from the dents in the branches. The high grass fields and the local garden could have been the escape, but everything moves too swiftly. He wouldn’t be able to dodge that man enough. Then again, there are trees. They can’t betray you unless you’re too heavy for the branch, but the question lies of how quickly he can get _into_ the tree.

It’s a good idea… at first… until he’s snatched up by the loose mess of his hair.

There’s a yelp given, one pained and scared as he stumbles from his feet and feels the earth dragged at the back of his heels, but all he sees through wet eyes is a towering figure with glowing red eyes. In the corner of his eye, something sparkles—a blade.

The boy is going to die… and he knew it, when the heat of his body rushed to his ears and the sound of the forest disappeared into a muddled cloud of high pitched ringing and searing pain. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t understand _why._ At one moment the sun was shining down above him and the children of the village wanted to befriend him… and at the next, he was crawling over small corpses, covering his trousers in mud and gore.

“You should have never run, Mohan. This was to be consenting… much… _much_ _kinder_ that this,” he could hear the man speak, but every so often a couple words would fade into nothing. “But I need that crystal out of you… we can meet god together… For the sake of The Tenth Dawn and _our_ Red King.”

His body is cold now, the heat stemming from the pain in his chest coming in uncomfortable waves as the sound of the man’s voice slowly disappears into nothing but loud, unintelligible whispering. The sound crawls through him with a numbing tingle that sends him quietly drifting back into that quiet pocket of darkness that saved him once before. It’s a darkness that slithers in silence as it wraps around limbs with a bone-breaking tightness.

And it pulls.

It pulls and drags that weight that sat above the young boy with a noisy stream of aggravated swearing but leaves him to drift into nothing. Gently… as he had tried to do earlier that evening. It hurts to breathe this time…

_Vé sa conamant ve, du pupor ji qe. _

There’s a whisper that comes to him in a breathy lull. It wraps him in a warmth unnatural, but soothing, yet there’s a prickle that crawls up his arms, stinging at his nerves.

_Bin na vo pupor._

The voice warps and distorts, bring a burning nausea boiling away at the pit of his belly. There’s magic gripping away at his joints, and one powerful enveloping his body safely away from the man that hunted him. However, there is silence and a set of eyes watching him from above. That safety pocket of black has swallowed him whole and left his body to fade and heal.

_Vé sa qekur javinalur, aajilyn’staa, oq-ta vyer pupor conamant._

** _You are safe now._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I've been slowly re-getting back into art and mindlessly slapping doodles into the middle of works (or where needed). After all these years of using AO3, I never thought I'd ever add images to works, but here we are. We're having fun, lads. And that's what matter's most. So don't be shocked when an image pops up. As I continue through chapters, some little things are hard to put into words properly so this is my way of doing so.
> 
> Glossary (goes in order of sentences through the work itself):
> 
> 1\. "I speak [the] one tongue. We are one in each other." | Ulthar is trying it. Non-Astani believe that Astanin is the first language of the First Society. (It is not true. It is one of the first.)  
2/3/4. "I will come to you, when the time is right. This is not your time. I will keep you strong, Little Star, until your time comes."  
“Become the Black” is a phrase used for Kularis worshippers as a way to say “embrace God for all of her strength.” It’s mostly heard or said to give luck to ones self.


	24. The First Lift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slowly getting back on track. but now, we play with a little bit of back lore. :)

Never assume the first lift is always something _small._ The first lift is something that weighs on your conscious and leaves you wondering if your actions were worth it. It’s never what gets you yanked by your ear back to your mother just to be scolded. Nor is it one of an apple from a cart or the tools from ones shed. No… It’s more than that. It’s something no one can properly explain.

No one understands how the first lift feels—not even the thief themselves. It is a feeling dangerously _grand._ It’s… unexplainable, yes. It started as a tingle in his hands, almost like a hungry itch demanding to be fed. It was a feeling he had felt before, one that left him confused, but understandably curious. However, for Mohan, that moment the intense feeling returned was for a skull. A **_golden_** skull, to be very specific. It was one that sat behind a loose glass case in the middle of a museum, to him, no one cared about. However, this week was special. An event grand took place here to display the art and culture of the fallen Tamerian Kingdom.

In truth, the only thing Mohan knew of the Kingdom was its leader, a protector without her Oracle—King Arluna Nils. She was known for her obscene taste for gold, but no one could doubt how her obsession of the love of its color thrived an era of art and creation. However, the irony of it was her death— encased in a statue made of gold without her head.

The history of it all enthralled him. She wasn’t as much of a Protector as she was a passing bodyguard for the Oracle that sat prior to Kataleya’s mentor, but when you work as close as any guard does, everyone wants to label you as such. Mohan never understood why.

Nevertheless, it fascinated him to see her corpse in all its sparkling splendor. She stood tall on the platform they held her raised on—arm outstretched and the blackened sight of her bones stretching free from its shell. She’s chipped in a few places and missing a few small pieces of what lasted of the shape of her body, but still.

The head.

By the heavens above, was it gorgeous.

He could never explain why such macabre images intrigued him. It was never the sight of blood or gore that left him wide-eyed and excited as much as it was the lingering aftermath of decay and emptiness where the world has slowly reclaimed it either back into the soil or fed the creatures around it. And yet, this was the one thing that he just _had_ to have.

Within its flimsy glass, it sat on a skinnier podium with a little light shining down on it. The bone had been decorated on purpose. Atop her scalp at a crown that reminded him of the sun that seemed to be melted into the intricate gold that incased her. The spikes of the crown had long folded in on itself or dulled down, but the jewels of gems and crystals sat bright and colorful wrapped around like another, thinner crown. Down the cheekbones of its “bone” sat a language familiar to him, etched deep and filled with silver that eventually bled down into the purposely reconnected bone and steel dipped jaw still filled with her exposed teeth.

The museum that night was to hold a show that week—The Tragedy of Tameria: a story of love, loss, and a breeding hatred that brought the island down in angry flames and the death of all its denizens within. A show that’s baffled viewers and holds several different endings that differ from the true, silent suicide of a Duke jealous.

Yet that play always left Mohan with a thought that left him focused no matter how much his confidence waivers: If you anticipate something happening, you’ll miss the grand finale. It won’t come to you as a trick of the mind of a beautiful twist in the story. Instead, it’ll be the disappointment that lingers.

And that’s what thieves are, right? They’re the leaders of a story to give a striking show no matter how big or small.

Still, every situation he had run through his head left him with a shitty replica gifted to him by a priest with a smile. It’s not what he wanted, of course, but… He never expected the museum to be as empty as it was when the show started. This one should have been as simple as it was… but there he stood with that gift bag in his hand and his heart uncomfortably throbbing in his chest.

_Ba-bump. Ba-bump._

There was no one there. No one to walk up behind him and question why he had not been at the show. No one to watch him lift the glass free from its place. No one there to watch him place the metal paperweight in its place.

Gods above, did his hands shake. He thought the glass would slip from his hands and the sweat of his palms would bleed through his gloves to leave his prints behind. He felt his lungs burn from holding his breath, trying his best to lower it back down without a noise. He should be in his element here… right? Encased in dim light to darkness, he could escape without a worry!

And he hears it.

A door creaking open and bringing in the light of the connected theater and a flood of people to the main foyer. An act had ended. The intermission had begun. The young priest had to act fast or get caught in the middle of the showcase, jewel encrusted skull in hand.

_Ba-bump. Ba. Bump._

The squeeze of his chest stings and the crowd grows near. Sooner or later they’re bound to make it back to the showroom and as they raise the lights of the museum bit by bit and yet…

He moves thusly— quiet like the oncoming death, slipping silently into the smallest corner he could before disappearing into the enthused crowd loaded joyfully with pamphlets and knick-knacks from the museum store prior, all eyeing the false skull that now sat beneath the replaced glass.

It’s a story none know and one he’s not sure of how to tell if the situation arises. How do you explain that the skull of a dead king now sits in a potion room surrounded by other skulls lifted from various areas for necromantic frolicking in the woods? How could explain that there was a reason behind having them other than the hard fact they were shiny… Then again, a touch of it _did_ come from the shine as well.

However, on his own, that moment replays more often than not. The feeling of that dreadful creeping beast of self-doubt sat like a boulder in his gut believing he’d be caught for something so small, yet so grand. _Disgusting._ This was the moment he was to prove himself without hiding. That nagging feeling was going to do nothing but hinder him when he should be hunting for that perfect ounce of euphoria. He wasn’t going to get it anything else unless… Unless he finally confided in that lovestruck want of his best friend.

No, that wasn’t going to happen.

He needed that taste of sweetness that could only come from the perfect treasure. It’s a black market down here, after all. Mohan ought to find _something, _and he was sure to have found it down in the depths of a false church.

His hand itch again. The thought of what lingered in the depths of this almost brought a smile to his lips. His second lift left him climbing the rafters of local homesteads and even led into the grounds of teaching himself how to understand layouts and buildings without a map.

Especially Kularian sanctuaries. Yet, this one ought to be a little different… internally, that is.

They called their headquarters “_The Sanctum._” In truth, he had hoped it would be in some royal’s home with impenetrable vaults where he’d spend ages digging through each and every secret corridor in hopes of treasure and battle. Perhaps those comics _have_ been messing with his head. But now, within the embrace of a hollowed out church, he’s a touch hurt on the idea of everything coming full circle—trying to leave the arms of the church just to end up in its reparative halls and even more tiresome walls, but even more excited to see it ruined. They had to have tainted it somehow.

At least now it made sense of why he _wasn’t_ given a map. He knew the twists and turns of every Sanctuary in Barrowlea. Of course, some of them held a few extra rooms or a few less, but they were all the same in development. Which meant one thing: he needed to be in the room of the High Priest.

Blessed be, he’s brimming with enthusiasm, now.

Here is where the test begins, and the downgrade of his confidence idles. And why? This isn’t the first thing he’s stolen or the biggest—simply the most important. He could do this! At the beginning, of course there was a lingering fear! He was being _watched._ Someone knew of his immoral hobbies and spoke on it! Was this to be used against him in the future or were they honest of using this as something to the freedom he desired?

_…Something to bring freedom…_

Every attempt brings a new daydream. One of success. One of horrible failure. Another where he’s more than just _some_ Oracle. He never wanted to be the beacon of godliness that only existed within the realm of dreams, but he knew better than that. People would put him on that pedestal nonetheless and Mohan knew he’d never strive to be on a level like that. But… he _did_ want to be the legend in the shadows.

Mohan wanted to be the one people like the Dòmrien market dwellers talk about in speculative horror stories whispered by bards. Why be God when you can he the terrifying savior in the dark watching from the sidelines. The thought of it is titillating, but alas. Always a daydream, but not the one he’s against.

He could simply make himself seem godly. He could always be the sight of a wandering, angry god…

No… Throw that idea out. An ascent to godhood would do nothing but complete that “full circle.” He would have lead himself down a path that once left him empty and sad. This was better. He needed no “ascension” to lay at the end of his goal with open arms when he crawled his way through the blackened halls of the old church.

He’s being teased and taunted with the idea that a spirit—a **_GOD_**, no less—is giving him the chance of a lifetime. Mohan could laugh at the idea of this, but to blessed with the power of some magnificent being? He’d be an idiot to pass it up and use it to his advantage. Is this not what warlocks do? Do they not give their body as host to some tremendous power? Could he not be the same? The story of his personal journey could be one that inspires talented witches across the world—you are not _just_ your magic nor your fanciful profession; how you allow it to evolve develops who you are as a person. Or so… that’s how he’d preach it. No one needed to know that all of this stemmed from dangerous curiosity that could have led to a story of a dead Oracle in gang territory.

_Wait._

In blackened halls, Mohan notices something off about this church that he should have spotted the moment he stepped in. Despite it all, he had memorized each corridor as well as he had the freckles on his cheeks, but there was something this building lacked… _life._ There were no windows in this hallway. There should be ones grand in this wing. At the end of the hall was to be a stained-glass paneling that faced toward the direction of the empire. The lights here were to be bright and inviting, but instead were dim and shadowed. There were no doors that led into scholar libraries or study rooms… it was… **_empty._**

It's not right.

That meant this place was never supposed to be used for a place of prayer. Yet, it makes sense. The Tenth Dawn only needed a front, so why not pose as Priests? No one would look twice in their direction… unless someone like him came along to break it all apart proudly, but then again, this place, in general, wasn’t made for anything _but_ a front.

Infuriating, yes, but could they not be like stereotypical gangsters running brothels instead?

As much as Mohan could complain about the church, as a whole, it didn’t need people like this smearing its name into the mud because they thought it was a quick and easy hiding place. It doesn’t work like that when most of the nation is devout to their respective faiths and Kularian sanctuaries are made as a shrine hub to embrace others. But when you don’t show that? When your halls don’t hold the same welcoming feelings as the others do, people notice, and a lot are very vocal about it. There were no chairs in this hall—no benches, no windows, no rugs, no paintings, no mosaics—and there was no complaint to the underground council or their Astani king?

Every little thing stood out brighter and louder than the next. Either the citizens didn’t notice with the Ryja take-over or it was never a church to begin with. Mohan would be a fool if he didn’t think the nearby people wouldn’t put up a fight. The surrounding area _is_ filled with monstrous criminals and dangerous gang leaders—they wouldn’t lose faith if they held tightly to it and Kularian worshippers are always loud when even a shrine monolith is out of place.

No, they noticed.

They were just ousted before they got a chance to speak.

At least this makes things a little bit easier. Anything that stands out is what he wants the most. And inside that blackened hallway, everything _but_ him stood out like an aggressive sore thumb.

Yet, here he is, wandering these halls with a thick curiosity and ravenous hope to find hope to find more than just gold. At this point, on top of finding the book, he wants to do something impossible.

Mohan wants to steal a city and the Sanctum is how he intends to do so.


End file.
